


A Winter of Magic and Portent

by thelightofmorning



Series: Blood of the Gods, Voice of a Dragon [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Multi, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Slavery, Suicide, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25076455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Calla has returned with Serana to the College of Winterhold after the defeat of Harkon, knowing full well she must stop Alduin from eating the world and Ancano from unravelling it. But politics and prophecy wait on no apocalypse or even two. The Psijics are reaching out from Artaeum. The Thalmor are nervous. And there are those on both sides of the civil war who fear a Septim with the power to Conjure creatures from Oblivion and the Voice of a dragon. The winter of 4E 201-202 is going to go down in Skyrim's history... if anyone's left to write about it.
Relationships: Lydia/Serana (Elder Scrolls)
Series: Blood of the Gods, Voice of a Dragon [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681009
Comments: 120
Kudos: 46





	1. The Dragonborn Comes to Winterhold

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, implied sexual activity, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death. Third in the Calla series. My toe got infected and I’m on hardcore antibiotics, then I have uni starting in a few weeks, so updates may be slow by my standards.

“I’m guessing that brilliant light to the west about a week ago was you resolving the Volkihar situation?” Savos Aren asked dryly as the Dragonborn and her vampire friend entered the Hall of the Elements. Ex-vampire; Serana was pale, but it was the pallor of the sun-shy, and her eyes no longer glowed. Calla had a nasty bruise on the side of her face but was otherwise intact, even if her enchanted garments were a bit threadbare.

“It was,” she confirmed, studying the Eye. “Now we’re here to deal with this and the dragons. One apocalypse averted, two to go.”

“We don’t have any proof Ancano will…” Savos began, only to trail off when Calla favoured him with a sardonic glance.

“The Thalmor’s metaphysical goals are obvious to anyone with a modicum of education,” she observed. “If it was possible, I’d throw the mer off the bridge and be done with him… but that would still leave us the Eye to deal with.”

“Indeed,” Savos agreed. Could she…? Yes, the Dragonborn would eat Morokei for breakfast. But he had to feed her the information slowly. “I understand the dragons are your priority – the information Urag’s dug up about them from the Ysmir Collective is horrifying – but could you find the time to teach the apprentices a few lessons in basic Conjuration? Onmund’s already trying to call a wolf and after what happened to the last lot who tried to Conjure a Dremora Lord, I’d prefer an expert handling that lesson. Phinis Gestor’s good, but you’re better.”

“I can.” Calla’s rare smile warmed her face. “I should give a heads up that the remnant Volkihar are setting up a College of Whispers cynosure at Castle Volkihar. Valerica, however, is willing to acknowledge the College of Winterhold’s independence and work with you… not try to drag you into the Whispers.”

“She’s my mother and she makes me look like a raw apprentice in necromancy,” Serana added.

“Valerica the Death-Witch herself?” Savos smiled ruefully. “I wager she’ll be less obnoxious than Decimus Paratus.”

“The Mzulft expedition?” Calla asked wryly. “I wouldn’t trust that man with a pot plant, let alone a research team.”

“The one and same,” Savos told her with a laugh. “Now, I’ve assigned you permanent quarters in the Hall of Countenance as per Mirabelle’s original decision. Both of you are proven mages who certainly need no oversight from a senior faculty member. Your duties to the College will involve research, three lectures per month, and a few tasks I can’t trust to most of the faculty as they’re non-combatants whereas you two are skilled battlemages. Is that acceptable?”

“It is,” Serana agreed. “The dragons take precedence, but…”

Savos sighed in relief. “I understand. No one wants the world to die. Your first task is to try and talk some sense into Jarl Korir…”

…

“The Helm of Winterhold!” Korir gasped as the compact brunette, clad in mage robes that glittered with enchantment, handed over the stalhrim-banded steel helmet. He was surprised to see it enchanted – had Hanse enchanted it? Who knew? It’d been lost for eighty or so years.

“Consider it a gesture of goodwill from the College,” the brunette said in a low pleasant voice. “I took the liberty of enchanting it with magical resistance and charisma enhancements in mind. Wearing that, Jarl Korir, you’ll be able to shrug off most minor spells and your words will have more effect on others. Useful for the Jarl of a Hold in recovery.”

Korir bit back the angry tirade that came automatically to his lips. “The College caused the Great Collapse, you know.”

“No. The constant eruptions of Red Mountain did. The earth is… hmm… like a skeleton. That’s why we call the lines of power _earthbones._ Winterhold is located on a joint, if you will, that ties Kynareth’s power to Lorkhan… to Shor’s.” The mage paused, her lips pursing thoughtfully. “Think of a warrior who’s blocked a warhammer in combat with a shield but broken their shoulder in the doing so; the College’s defences absorbed _most_ of the impact but couldn’t stop it entirely. Winterhold, being geomantically vulnerable, broke like that warrior’s shoulder.”

“So you’re saying that it isn’t their fault?” Korir asked carefully. This mage wasn’t sneering down at him and from the looks of her, she might have seen actual combat. At first glance, he’d thought her a Redguard, but her robes were lighter than a non-Nord would wear in Winterhold… and she did have sort-of Nord features.

“Not the College faculty of today; of them, only Faralda and Savos Aren were around at the time, and one was an apprentice and the other just graduated,” she replied. “But it does seem like the Master Wizard and Arch-Mage of the day neglected some of their duties in reinforcing Winterhold’s foundations. They were too busy dealing with the aftermath of the Mages’ Guild dissolution in Cyrodiil and the rising influence of the Aldmeri Dominion to give them much thought.”

It sounded very plausible, Korir had to admit. “But you can’t say for certain?”

“Not without access to the records open only to the Arch-Mage, the librarian and the Master Wizard,” she admitted. “I’m faculty and one of the new instructors, but I haven’t earned my stripes in a matter of speaking. Not yet. Even as Dragonborn, I can’t rise through the ranks like a lark in the morning.”

Korir had heard terrible tales of the Dragonborn being a Conjurer who could summon Daedric Princes at will, make a man’s bones dance for her amusement and resurrect dragons to lay waste to entire armies. This woman, short for a Nord with long black hair and olive-bronze skin, looked so… ordinary. Not like the greatest traitor to Skyrim that ever existed, according to Sigdrifa Stormsword.

“The Stormsword calls you a traitor to Skyrim,” he said slowly.

“My mother abandoned me to the Empire because she wanted to pretend her first marriage never happened,” the Dragonborn said with a weary sigh. “I was sent to the College of Whispers because those stories about Aurelia Northstar, the Hero of Kvatch, are true – she’s an aspect of Sheogorath known as the Madgoddess – and my family, the Aurelii, have an innate connection to Oblivion. How can I be a traitor to Skyrim when my mother left me in Cyrodiil to begin with?”

Thaena, Korir’s wife, gasped. “You’re part- _Daedra_?”

“Given that my great-great-grandfather is Martin Septim, I’m also part-Aedra,” the woman confirmed wryly. “Being descended from gods isn’t as awesome as people think it is. I came to Skyrim on a research expedition and found myself stopping corruption in Markarth, fighting a vampire king that wanted to turn the sun to blood so he could rule the world, and discovering I have to go toe-to-toe with the literal World-Eater. Given the idiocy of my mother and her second husband, I might have to fight them too, but I’d really rather not. I’m Nord enough to not want to be a kinslayer.”

Korir was startled into a laugh at the sheer wry exasperation in her voice. “We’re loyal to the Stormcloaks-“

“Loyal to the Stormcloaks or scared shitless of Sigdrifa?” the Dragonborn interrupted, her gaze turning shrewd. “I can tell you, for a fact, that my mother’s been sponsoring ‘bandit bands’ and ‘rogue necromancers’ for the past decade or so. I’m… well, if Titus Mede died choking on a fishbone, I’d ask if the fish was doing okay. The Empire’s fucked up. But I’ve survived what the Dominion does to its enemies. Once Alduin is dealt with, I intend to launch my Voice, my undead dragon and the creatures I can summon from Oblivion at the Thalmor. But I can only do that with Legionaries backing me up. Ulfric doesn’t have the soldiers, even if he managed to unite Skyrim in rebellion.”

“Are you going to make yourself Empress?” Korir asked soberly. She was a Septim! A part-Daedra Septim! Her voice rang with truth – he could read people well.

“Do you know how much paperwork goes into ruling an Empire?” she asked in disbelief. “Getting a new set of mage robes is bad enough. Imagine needing to sign forms in triplicate to shit in peace of a morning?”

Korir, used to being cornered by Birna whenever he was at the Frozen Hearth, burst out laughing in agreement. She had a point about the bureaucracy. “There are days when I wish I wasn’t Jarl,” he admitted. “But if not me, who?”

“Probably Kraldar,” the Dragonborn noted shrewdly. “He’s amenable to working with whoever will rebuild Winterhold.”

“Ulfric gives us food and keeps the bandits from overrunning us,” Korir told her. “We owe him…”

“I can tell you now that the bandits won’t be a problem for much longer – neither will the necromancers and other unpleasant guests to the Hold – because we’ve got three apprentice mages in dire need of some battlefield experience,” the Dragonborn told him. “Savos has finally gotten it into his head that we can’t ignore you and Mirabelle has always wanted to be able to work with you. But the College needs a little less hostility from you. The Helm’s a sign of good faith – will you at least give us a chance?”

Korir studied the Helm sombrely. “I can give you a chance, Dragonborn. You’re a Nord. You’ll speak for these apprentices?”

“Onmund’s a Nord too – from the Broken-Tusk clan. I believe he’s trying to persuade his family to move a Hold over as there’s too much competition in the Pale’s waters,” she answered. “Brelyna’s a noblewomer from two Morrowind Great Houses who threw out the Empire several decades ago and all Dunmer consider the Altmer to be fools who refuse to embrace the challenge of mortality. J’zargo spits whenever Ancano, our Thalmor ‘diplomat’, goes by. Faralda’s father was a Nord and Tongue in the court of Hanse. Half the faculty are exiles from the Dominion. Ancano’s only alive because Elenwen threatened to have the family members of faculty who still live in Elseweyr and Valenwood killed, even if he should so much as crack his head after slipping on some ice.”

“But you’re going to kill him, right?” Thaena asked.

“Ancano’s going to slip up. He’s a competent enough mage but he’s also sloppy when he’s eager… and he’s drooling over what we found in Saarthal.” The Dragonborn’s expression was sombre. “I’ve read three Elder Scrolls. They’re telling me it isn’t quite time to act yet. Not on the Stormcloaks and not on Ancano. Soon, but not now.”

“The World-Eater won’t wait around for you to defeat them,” Korir agreed soberly. “I’ll give Onmund a chance. He’s a Nord. Unless you’d like to be Thane…?”

“I’m already Thane of Whiterun,” she told him. “Onmund, with a bit of training, will make an excellent Thane. He’s already showing leadership instincts.”

“Then if he impresses the people of my Hold and does a service for me, I’ll make him Thane,” promised Korir. “As to the rest of it, I need to consider. What you’re asking of me…”

“I know. You’ve made promises,” she said sympathetically. “I might be occasionally ruthless, the granddaughter of a Hagraven and the daughter of a Shieldmaiden, but I always try to keep my word. I’m a Nord, after all. But you need to decide if other people have kept their side of the bargain.”

“Your father’s mother was a Hagraven?” Thaena gasped.

“No. My mother’s mother is.”

Korir found himself laughing yet again. “Well, that explains the Stormsword!”

“Madanach actually lost the battle of Markarth because my granma couldn’t kill her own daughter,” the Dragonborn said sadly. “My mother never would have hesitated.”

That was true. And Korir realised that Sigdrifa probably had a back-up Jarl in place in case he didn’t toe the Stormcloak line.

He studied the Dragonborn. She was telling the truth. He could read people.

Maybe a reconsideration of allegiances was in order after all.


	2. A Diplomatic Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, corpse desecration and mentions of torture and incompatible mixed-orientation marriage. There are so many blatant necromancers running around Skyrim that I believe someone is sponsoring them. In my stories, it’s Sigdrifa and/or the Thalmor.

“So, you're the one who barged into my home and laid waste to my projects. How nice to meet you,” said the Altmer mage snidely as Calla strode into the ritual chamber. “You may call me the Caller.”

“And you can call me Calla Heart-Taker, Evoker of the College of Whispers, Conjuration Master of the College of Winterhold,” Calla answered serenely. “My colleague is Serana, Evoker of the College, daughter of Valerica the Death-Witch. We’re here for the books Orthorn stole from the Arcaneum at your behest.”

The Caller looked between Calla, Serana, Orthorn, the two Dremora Lords and the thralled corpses of her most powerful minions, licking her lips nervously. “Your reputation precedes you, Calla. Despite your disruption of my current project, I have no quarrel with you. Give me the apprentice and you can take the books.”

“Orthorn is an idiot who will be expelled from the College, but I saw what you were doing,” Calla answered calmly. “Both the Whispers and Winterhold frown upon the trapping of sentient souls without an official sentence of death being passed by the relevant authority. Unrestricted necromancy upon the innocent is illegal in the Empire. You have attacked citizens of Whiterun and I am also a Thane of this Hold. Your life is forfeit by all those laws.”

“So you’ve come to execute me then?” the Caller asked, fingers twitching instinctively. Then she thought better of it when the Dremora mage called fire to her hand.

“I know for a fact that a lot of you necromancers are operating under _someone’s_ blessing,” Calla told her. “If you cooperate, I’ll turn you over to Elenwen. If not, I’ll kill you here and now, and find out anyway when we interrogate your soul in the Soul Cairn. I can summon an undead dragon from there. He’s very effective.”

The Caller laughed harshly. “You trust the Ideal Masters? You’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

“I don’t. But I’ve gone to the Soul Cairn and survived. I have a piece of it in me. Serana’s work. She can partially soul trap someone, you know that?” Calla smiled grimly. “It’s painful. Unless you wish to find out what it’s like…”

_“If you can intimidate your enemy, you’ve won half the battle,”_ was something she remembered her mother telling some apprentice Blades at Cloud Ruler Temple. Her Legion drill Quaestor said something similar during her training in Anvil.

The Caller broke under that grim smile and the purple-black energy gathered in Serana’s hand. “It’s… I was… two benefactors. Elenwen was one. She wanted us to weaken Skyrim by desecrating its graves and killing as many lone Nords as possible. The other… The Stormsword. She wants to end the disparity between Legion and Stormcloak numbers by raising corpses. There’s a Redguard at Anvilsund on that project and a renegade Whispers in Windhelm working on making a lich.”

“Undead shock troops with lich officers. Ye gods, how does she think the Stormcloaks will take that?” Calla asked in disbelief.

“Between you and me, the woman is a fucking idiot,” the Caller said bluntly. “She thinks everything will go as she’s planned and everyone will appreciate the necessity.”

“I know that better than you,” Calla said wryly. “She’s my mother.”

She closed her hands. “Thank you for your cooperation. Come along quietly and I’ll put you on the carriage to Solitude-“

The Caller’s hands flashed through a series of gestures as she summoned two Flame Atronachs. “Elenwen will kill me! But I deliver your head-“

Serana hadn’t relaxed and at a barked word in Old Nord, her undead thralls engaged the Caller as Orthorn cast Ice Spike at the nearest Flame Atronach. Calla opened her hands again but the Dremora she’d summoned were already engaged.

“At least you’re not going to the Soul Cairn,” she said softly as the Altmer mage died.

…

“I’m both terrified and aroused,” Orthorn confessed to Serana as they left Fellglow Keep.

“I’m not interested,” she said curtly, “And Calla would rip your heart out if you even suggested it.”

The Altmer gulped, blanched to the colour of aged parchment, and fell blessedly silent.

Since Whiterun was so close, they went to the trade city, and Serana marvelled again at how prosperous and bright and _beautiful_ Skyrim’s trading hub was. Even the beggars had meat on their bones in Whiterun and almost everyone wore dyed garments and some form of metal jewellery. Back when her father was mortal, Solitude hadn’t been this rich.

Lydia had returned from Markarth and greeted her Thane with a huge grin as they entered Dragonsreach. Orthorn had gone to the Bannered Mare, knowing full well he wouldn’t be allowed back at the College, and Serana sighed in relief. For a race that lived for centuries, Altmer could be so very, very stupid.

The huscarl was perfectly healed, she assured Calla, and Balgruuf had given some generous trade concessions to the Reach for their assistance. “Jarl Ainethach and Uncle Balgruuf get on like a house on fire,” she said with a smile. “How’s Winterhold going?”

“I’ve talked Korir into reconsidering his attitude towards the College,” Calla told her. “The main problem seems to be that Ulfric’s using supplies and the ‘bandit problem’ Winterhold suffers as an excuse to control him.”

“Half the bandits in the Old Holds are Stormcloaks and the other half are probably on the Stormsword’s payroll,” Balgruuf, strolling into the great hall, drawled. “Welcome back, Calla. How’s the fight against Alduin going?”

“I’m currently juggling the Thalmor and Alduin. Thank the gods the latter’s a gourmand who prefers to chew his food slowly,” Calla said wryly. “Any more dragon attacks?”

“Not in Whiterun. I think word got around you have an undead dragon and the other dragons aren’t keen to meet him,” Balgruuf said with a grin. The resemblance to his niece was uncanny.

“Durnehviir is definitely a character,” Calla agreed with a laugh. “Is Farengar around? We just killed a bunch of necromancers up at Fellglow Keep and we have a lot of goodies to trade.”

Farengar found his entire stock of soul gems replenished and Serana found herself with a pile of gleaming golden coins that she had no idea what to do with. Fellglow Keep had been looted quite thoroughly – and Jarl Balgruuf was going to send soldiers up there to secure the old fort and anything else left there to extend his own coffers – but she had brand new mage robes from the College, every soul gem she owned was full, and she already knew most of the spells the faculty at Winterhold sold. What was she going to do with all this coin?

“You should buy Breezehome,” Balgruuf was telling Calla. “I waived the property requirements to make you Thane but it gives a sense of permanency if you own something.”

“Honestly, I’m going to be up at Winterhold for a very long time,” Calla said, clasping her hands together. “I’ve been made Conjuration Master up there. And honestly, Balgruuf, I’m used to being around mages. I wouldn’t know how to be a courtier if my life depended on it.”

“You’re always welcome to the hospitality of my hall,” Balgruuf assured her. “And I made you Thane because you’re a powerful deterrent as Dragonborn. But Breezehome needs an owner… and the other nobles will take you more seriously if you own land. You don’t need to live there. But it’ll be the cheapest house you can get in Skyrim.”

“How much are we talking?” Calla said reluctantly.

“Five thousand septims and probably another two thousand or so to make it liveable,” Proventus Avenicci, the Steward, supplied diffidently.

“That’s about two lessons in Destruction from Faralda at my level of skill,” Calla observed. “But I’ve only got about three thousand.”

“I have the other three thousand,” Serana reminded her. “You have to admit, having our own place in Whiterun would be cheaper – and less of a bother – than staying at the inn. If Mikael hits on me one more time…”

Calla nodded slowly. “Good point.”

“Is this wedding bells I hear?” Balgruuf asked dryly.

“Me and Serana? I see her more as a sister than anything else,” Calla told Balgruuf. “We’re too much alike for what you’re implying.”

“True that,” Serana agreed. She’d considered Calla as a potential partner for a couple days but… Calla was very driven and ambitious. So was Serana. While both of them were better people than Harkon and Valerica, it would be too much like her parents all over again for Serana’s comfort. That was assuming Calla even liked women that way.

Lydia’s expression brightened. “I’m not normally one for older women but…”

“Older? Bloody hell, I’m thirty-three and will live a lot longer because I’m a mage!” Calla exclaimed.

“I’m twenty-six,” Lydia told her.

“I’m flattered, but I’m not a big fan of romances between commander and commanded,” Calla told the huscarl. “I saw it at Cloud Ruler Temple and in the Anvil Third. It always goes pear-shaped in the end.”

Lydia gave her uncle a wry glance. “Sorry, Uncle Balgruuf.”

Balgruuf shrugged. “It’s alright, Lydia. The Dragonborn will do as the Dragonborn will.”

“Were you trying to matchmake me?” Calla asked, eyebrow rising.

“Yes,” Balgruuf admitted calmly. “It’s a fairly standard diplomatic tactic, Calla. Whether you like it or not, you’re a political player now, and that brings changes to your life.”

“He’s right,” Serana agreed. “You don’t have to undergo an arranged marriage, but it won’t stop people trying to matchmake you with their eligible relatives. My father tried with me and… well. He was a man and we weren’t compatible. If it had been a woman, I might have agreed to it.”

“Thank the gods I can Shout people arse over tit these days,” Calla said fervently. “My parents were in an arranged marriage and that went downhill quicker than a greased pig.”

“From what I know of your parents, neither of them are marriage material,” Balgruuf said dryly. “Though Sigdrifa and Ulfric seemed to have worked out. Probably because he’s fucking Galmar on the side.”

Lydia smiled at Serana. “So, are _you_ looking? As I said, I’m not normally one for older women…”

Serana blushed, Calla laughed and Balgruuf looked pleased. A home and maybe a wife. How things had changed for the former vampire.


	3. Julius Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Having an undead dragon can come in handy, lol.

“We might as well go to High Hrothgar while we’re here,” Calla observed as she glanced up at the monastery from Dragonsreach’s balcony. “The Greybeards are going to have a shit fit when I arrive, but with Ancano sniffing around the Eye, I don’t have the luxury of talking a pilgrimage up a holy mountain. DURNEHVIIR!”

The undead dragon coalesced in front of them, his eyes alight. “Drem Yol Lok, Qahnaarin,” he greeted warmly. For being free of the Soul Cairn, even for a few hours, he was grateful. “What do you require of me this day?”

“I need you to carry me to High Hrothgar,” Calla told him. “The monastery on the mountain behind us.”

“Monahven? That is Paarthurnax’s roost.” Durnehviir nodded. “He and I never had a quarrel.”

“I have none with him either. If he hadn’t taught the Three Tongues at Kynareth’s behest, none of us would be here,” Calla agreed. “So I need a ride there and when I return, I’ll summon you for a ride back. There’s a Krisfahliil who’s pissed me off, but I need to deal with Alduin too.”

“Call on me when you face him,” Durnehviir said as she mounted him. “You are Thuri – my overlord.”

“I will, trust me.” She waved to Lydia and Serana as he climbed onto the porch’s edge. “Have fun while I’m gone!”

Serana blushed and Lydia laughed. Honestly, Calla thought the two would be good for each other.

It was an hour’s ride to High Hrothgar and when Durnehviir landed in the courtyard behind the monastery, an old grey dragon was there to greet them. “Drem Yol Lok,” he greeted formally. “Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah... my mountain?”

“I am Calla Heart-Taker, the Last Dovahkiin, and this is my liege-dragon Durnehviir,” Calla replied as she slid off the dragon’s back. “I have come as the Greybeards called.”

“Yes. Vahzah. You speak true, Dovahkiin. Forgive me. It has been long since I held tinvaak with a stranger. I gave in to the temptation to prolong our speech,” Paarthurnax sighed.

“The old one is lonely?” Durnehviir asked in disbelief.

“Evenaar Bahlok. There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed. Dreh ni nahkip. Discipline against the lesser aids in qahnaar... denial of the greater,” Paarthurnax answered calmly. “Had you shown such wisdom, you would not be in your current state.”

“Teyfunvahzah does not visit you?” the undead dragon rumbled.

“When he can. But Kynareth calls him to greater tasks as a Jill.” Paarthurnax sighed again as the doors to the monastery opened, an old man in grey robes trimmed with hawk feathers running out with a spryness that belied his iron-and-frost hair. “KAH-LAH. Pride. Magicka. Yes, that name suits you, Dovahkiin.”

“I am what I am,” Calla agreed. “Let me assure you I have no intention of picking fights with you, Teyfunvahzah or the Greybeards. I might be a ruthless part-Daedra bitch, but I don’t believe in unnecessary murder.”

“You are a better person than you know, Kah-Lah. Even if you are not as good as the Greybeards might wish.” Paarthurnax turned his hoary head to the Greybeard. “Aar-Naar-Gaar, this is Kah-Lah, the Dovahkiin. The dragon is Durnehviir.”

“Why didn’t you take the seven thousand steps?” the Greybeard demanded.

“Because I’m passing through on the way back to Winterhold,” Calla told him. “We’ve got a Thalmor there trying to harness the power of an Aedric artefact, whereas Alduin seems to be taking his time with the impending apocalypse.”

The Greybeard blanched. “Good gods.”

“Kah-Lah has ties to Oblivion,” Paarthurnax informed the old man.

“Yes, I saw the script on her arms,” he retorted frostily.

“I’m the great-great-granddaughter of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar,” Calla admitted serenely. “Having divine ancestry isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” the Greybeard observed icily.

Calla took a longer look at him. Olive-bronze complexion, bright blue eyes, a nose as beaky as her own, the lantern jaw and underbite that could only come from Orcish blood… “Julius Martin?”

“Arngeir,” he corrected with a sigh. “But… yes. I was Julius Martin. In my pride, I thought myself the Last Dragonborn because learning the Thu’um was so very easy for me. Paarthurnax and the Greybeards disabused me of that notion.”

“I had to Shout him off the mountain three times,” Paarthurnax observed amusedly.

“Only three?” Calla asked wryly.

“He learned humility quickly,” the dragon said dryly.

“So you didn’t come back because you didn’t want to look like an idiot?”

“No. I was meant to be here, to give the Greybeards the Akaviri dragonlore…” Arngeir sighed. “I know what Arius wrought. By the time I knew, there was nothing I could do.”

“Madness runs in our line. It’s the gift of the Madgoddess,” Calla said softly. “Grandfather just had it with bells on.”

She took a deep breath. “I need your help. There’s so little we know about the Thu’um and I know it will get much worse before it gets better. I’ve cancelled one apocalypse and now I have two more on my plate. Please teach me what you know. You are the son of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar. Time to follow in their footsteps and save the world.”

…

The Dragonborn flew away on Durnehviir’s back, having learned the second Word of Unrelenting Force and the first one of Whirlwind Sprint like a master. Arngeir drained half his flagon of mead in one long swallow. She was much like himself but her arrogance was that of self-confidence, not delusion.

“She is better than she knows,” Paarthurnax reassured the Greybeards. A dragon could see back and forth on the timestream and so he knew Calla better than she knew herself. “Already, the walls have been breached, vines growing through the cracks. Compassion and kindness will come to her more easily as she is treated with more respect and liking.”

“That reassures me,” Arngeir said after finishing his mead. “Cruelty is a bad fit on a Dragonborn. It can only lead to greater sorrow in the end.”

That was, of course, why he’d never been Dragonborn like his father. For Aria and Arius, for all the Blades who died at the hands of the Thalmor, Arngeir would have burned the Dominion to ash. He hadn’t abandoned the Blades because of his failure…

…He’d left to protect them. And yet he had failed.

Arngeir turned for the Shrine of Kyne. He had a lot of prayers for the dead to make.


	4. What Choice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment and mentions of indentured prison labour, child abandonment and adultery. There might be a story where Sigdrifa doesn’t make bad life choices, but it is not this one and not this day. I know indentured prison labour isn’t nice, but it’s a hell of a lot better for a Dark Ages setting than being executed or thrown into a dungeon to rot.

_“Yes, let’s declare war on the Hold whose newest Thane is the literal Daedra-blooded, corpse-raising, riding-an-undead-dragon, Atronach-summoning, Hagraven’s granddaughter Dragonborn! What in Oblivion and Aetherius could possibly go wrong?”_

_Bjarni could only assume that Egil developed some common sense in between the Vigilants getting massacred and Harkon the Cruel being killed, because he’d never spoken against a military decision of their parents beyond suggesting greater mercy before today. He wasn’t keen on getting into a fight with his sister either. But the other choice was to show their bellies to the Empire and hope for a swift execution._

He cracked open his eyes to see the malicious glitter of garnet-red eyes in a grim indigo-blue face staring down at him. “Irileth,” he croaked. _“Finish it.”_

“And give the Stormcloaks another martyr?” Balgruuf’s huscarl asked as she sheathed her sword. “No.”

“Please,” Bjarni begged hoarsely. “I accept my fate. I don’t want…”

“Balgruuf has no intention of handing you over to the Thalmor,” Irileth said as two guards in saffron wraps came to pick Bjarni up. “Not when he can get a decent ransom for you.”

Bjarni laughed weakly. “They won’t pay.”

“Egil will.”

Of the hundred Stormcloaks that attacked Whiterun, less than fifty remained. Bjarni hadn’t known that Balgruuf’s forces included three powerful battlemages, one of them a necromancer and the other a Conjurer, or that he’d given his allegiance to the Empire in return for Legionaries. His mother’s intelligence had been faulty at best, outdated at worst.

What rankled the most was that the Dragonborn hadn’t even been around for the fight.

Irileth was as good as her word, which led to Balgruuf and Legate Rikke yelling at each other in front of the Temple of Kynareth until Danica Pure-Spring told them both to comport themselves appropriately before the goddess. The captured Stormcloaks were healed and quartered, under guard, in a warehouse hastily converted into sparse barracks. The Jarl of Whiterun provided books and a chess set. No alcohol though, not even village homebrew. Meat was scarce too.

Serana, the necromancer who used to be a vampire, paid a visit three days after the battle. Lydia, Balgruuf’s bastard niece, accompanied her. Both of them looked more sympathetic than contemptuous.

“Calla should be back from Ustengrav in a couple days,” Serana told him in a low sweet voice. “She’ll deliver the ransom notice to Ulfric and Sigdrifa herself.”

“No Stormcloaks are to be ransomed,” Bjarni told her with a sigh. “My parents won’t purchase their honour with gold.”

“Your parents sound a lot like mine, only with less Bal worship,” Serana noted. “Talos, as a god, sounds like he’s an absolute cunt. Is he really worth dying for?”

“For nearly six hundred years, the Nords marched when the Empire blew the trumpets,” Bjarni told her soberly. “To keep his throne after the Great War, the Emperor betrayed the god who founded his Empire and broke faith with the Nords and the Redguards. There are better gods than Talos, aye. But the Empire betrayed the Nords to the Aldmeri Dominion and then impoverished us to pay its debts.”

Serana grimaced. “I see where you’re coming from. But I can assure you a lot of Imperials are getting ready to kill Dominion soldiers when the time comes. Calla’s already making theoretical battle-plans. She intends to bring the full power of her Voice and her god-blood against the Thalmor.”

“Then why doesn’t she join the Stormcloaks?” Bjarni burst out.

“Because she is a proud woman of the Sunset Lands who could never betray her clan like that,” Serana told him. “You’ve got Reach-blood, Bjarni. Your mother betrayed her kith and kin in the Markarth Incident.”

“Calla’s Forsworn?” he yelped.

“No. She’s never broken an oath she’s made.” That was Lydia. “You have to consider your allegiances. Uncle Balgruuf won’t sell you to the Thalmor, but if the Legion insists and there’s no ransom, he’ll have no choice but to turn you over to Tullius.”

“I’m not afraid to die,” Bjarni told them. “Sovngarde awaits.”

“No,” Serana said with a terrible gentleness. “You’ll be hung. If you die bravely, Alduin will feast on your soul in Sovngarde.”

With those words, they left.

Next to Bjarni, Ralof inhaled shudderingly. “Gods! Is she telling the truth?”

“It matches with what I know about the old stories,” Bjarni confirmed woodenly. “Talos have mercy…”

But as his mother said, Talos rarely had mercy. Talos only favoured success and Bjarni had failed dismally.

Two days after the visit, a woman with long black hair entered the warehouse, her robes a drab blue-grey and bearing travel stains. Short and rounded for a Nord, her skin was olive-bronze and her nose was a Colovian beak. Silver glittered around her head and neck and on her ears and fingers. Everything was enchanted, powerfully so, and the backs of her hands showed Daedric script. According to Egil, her entire torso and arms were covered with it, signs of rank and power among the Forsworn and the College of Whispers.

She looked up at Bjarni and blinked. “Blessed gods,” she observed in a low sweet voice. “What did they feed you as a kid?”

“Half the hearth and home,” Ralof quipped bravely. “So you’re the terrible Dragonborn. I was expecting Daedra horns and unholy spells dripping from your tongue.”

“I save them for special occasions,” Calla noted dryly.

Despite his situation, Bjarni smiled wryly. His sister shared a similar sense of humour to himself. “I’ll save you the trip to Windhelm. Stormcloaks aren’t ransomed, sister.”

“Of course not. The Stormsword’s never one to waste a thought about a child she thinks is useless,” Calla said waspishly. “As for the ransom, _I_ paid it. I watched too many people I knew be executed in Bruma to let it happen to a brother if I can help it.”

Bjarni inhaled deeply. “I won’t abandon my soldiers. Even if it means I’m denied Sovngarde.”

“I was able to talk Balgruuf into accepting a ransom for them too,” Calla told him. “But I won’t be able to have you released to the Old Holds. The Legion drew that line and frankly, I agree with it. The less Stormcloaks in the battle, the more chance of victory.”

“How can you support the Empire?” Bjarni asked her.

“Because the alternative is a lot worse,” was her calm reply. “Mede’s on his last legs. Akaviria shows a lot more promise.”

“You could become Empress,” Ralof pointed out. “Sure, you’re a Daedra-loving Forsworn Hag of Oblivion, but you’re a Nord Dragonborn Septim Daedra-loving Forsworn Hag of Oblivion.”

“I’d rather not sign paperwork to book myself time for a shit in the mornings, thanks,” Calla responded dryly, earning a laugh from some of the Stormcloaks. “Now, unless you feel like being marched to the Hammerfell border to go into exile, Balgruuf intends to allow you limited freedoms. His roads need repairing and there’s about fifty of you who can work until the civil war is over.”

“I’d rather die!” snapped one of the other Stormcloaks. “Glory or Sovngarde!”

“Anyone who dies heroically will feed Alduin’s power and I have no intention of making my life harder in the future,” Calla answered coldly. “It’ll be the gallows for anyone who thinks death is better to work. I won’t kill kin. That grace doesn’t extend to common Stormcloaks.”

She turned away. “It’s your choice. I’ve done what I can.”

Bjarni already knew what his choice was. He could only hope his parents understood.


	5. A Price Demanded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, indentured prison labour and child abuse.

“Thank the gods Bjarni’s a sensible lad,” Balgruuf said with a sigh as they breakfasted on the Great Porch. “He and Egil are better than their parents.”

“Tullius won’t be happy but he’ll see the necessity,” Rikke said after a mouthful of snowberry juice. “That was a good idea, making them work off the ransom by repairing the roads. It might convince the Stormcloaks to build rather than destroy.”

Calla spread some juniper jam on her toast. “The Stormcloaks do have a few good points. Cyrodiil’s been using Skyrim as a larder and conscription point for two decades with little in return.”

“I know. I’ve convinced Tullius that we need to start reinforcing and repairing the Imperial infrastructure in the loyalist Holds, to show the benefits of belonging to the Empire.” Rikke sighed. “That means we’ll be down in manpower. Between Helgen and the infrastructure maintenance, by about twenty percent.”

“I see where this is going,” Calla observed with a sigh of her own. “Tell Tullius I served my time and I can’t be re-conscripted.”

“I was going to ask you to come to Solitude and make a public show of support for the Empire,” Rikke told her mildly. “Calla, you don’t know what it means for you to be Dragonborn-“

“I do. Why do you think I’ve been putting the fear of the gods into the Stormcloaks?” Calla countered. “Bjarni and Ralof backed down when I told them I intended to bring fire and ruin to the Dominion. But I’ve got Ancano trying to destroy the world and Alduin trying to eat it. I can’t die in some pissant skirmish in the Old Holds-“

“We can handle the military aspect,” Rikke interrupted. “I know what the return of Alduin means, even if the General doesn’t. The Forsworn have already agreed to handle the covert operations. They have every reason to hate Ulfric and Sigdrifa and I’m minded to oblige them.”

“How Shieldmaiden of you,” Calla said dryly. “You can claim your hands are clean to Tsun when it comes time to cross the Whalebone Bridge if the Forsworn do all the murdering for you.”

Rikke flushed. “That’s for Tsun to decide, Calla. You’re not likely to go to Sovngarde yourself.”

“I hope not. An eternity drinking with muscle-bound morons who disdain magic sounds moderately unpleasant.” Calla ate some toast. “Just cut to the chase, Rikke. What do you want from me?”

“A sworn oath of allegiance to Elisif as the rightful High Queen and the Mede family as rightful Emperors,” was the Legate’s swift answer. “I won’t ask you to swear to Titus Mede. But Akaviria will need all the help she can get.”

“Skyrim needs a monarch who isn’t an Imperial puppet,” Calla pointed out. “I’m sure Elisif is a nice girl, but we both know she’s got a spine like a wet noodle. Offer Balgruuf the High King’s crown and I’ll do it.”

Balgruuf choked on his porridge and Rikke’s mouth pursed. “The Elder Council won’t be happy.”

“Fuck the Elder Council.” Calla steepled her fingers. “Speaking of which, I damned well better get a seat on it. I know where the oath will lead: Tullius will use me to quash the bigger pockets of resistance in the Old Holds. I won’t break oath or kinslay, but I won’t be used as a blunt weapon either.”

“That demand might just carry the Emperor off before an assassin does,” Balgruuf drawled.

_You say that like it’s a bad thing,_ Calla thought to herself.

“I’ll put it to Tullius,” Rikke promised with a sigh. “I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you. The Aurelii are still interdicted.”

“And I’m the only person who can stop the dragons,” Calla reminded her sweetly. “There’s nothing stopping me from taking a sabbatical to the Shivering Isles or another plane of Oblivion and letting Alduin’s minions soften up Skyrim for a bit.”

Judging by Rikke’s horrified expression, she might just have shit herself in shock and fear.

“I’m not Irkand, who will serve for a crumb of recognition, or my father, who will kill for petty vengeance, or my mother, who will betray everyone in the name of her god,” Calla continued calmly. “I am Calla Heart-Taker. Blood of the gods, Voice of a dragon. Balgruuf’s earned my allegiance because he’s given me respect. The Reach has my assistance because they’re family. I’m not Aurelia Northstar or Julius Martin or Martin Septim or Arius Aurelius. I’m the only person who can save the world. Tell Tullius not to push his luck, or I might just annihilate the Stormcloaks myself and take the glory.”

Rikke nodded weakly, her face ashen. Even Balgruuf looked a little perturbed.

Calla poured herself some snowberry juice. She still had to fly back to Winterhold to find out what Ancano was doing.

…

“You handle yourself well. You could make for a decent Shield-Brother.”

The sable-haired young Nord, who towered over even Aela and was only a little less behemothic than Farkas, grinned crookedly. “That might be awkward seeing as I’m a paroled prisoner, Huntress.”

Behind them, a group of Stormcloaks were shovelling dirt, rounding rocks into cobblestones, and doing the other dozen little tasks required for repairing a road. Ria had been a little surprised that Balgruuf had ransomed them, then put them all to work, until Vilkas pointed out that by _Nord law_ , Bjarni’s only crime was to lead a raid on Whiterun. Judging by the size and colouring, the Nord who’d brained a giant with a thrown cobblestone had to be Ulfric’s eldest son.

“What possessed you to attack Whiterun?” Ria asked the warrior. “You had to have known Balgruuf was reinforced by battlemages and Legionaries.”

“We didn’t, actually,” Bjarni admitted with a grimace. “It could have been worse. Calla could have been around, used Storm Call, and absolutely none of us would be alive to repair Balgruuf’s roads.”

“She has a certain sense of honour,” Aela noted. “But you’d probably need to be from the Reach to understand it.”

Ria was still trying to figure out how she felt about the last of the Aurelii being the Last Dragonborn. That she was a Septim was obvious. That she was descended from the Madgoddess was even more blatant. That she was a one-woman army could be seen even by a blind man.

“Your parents sent you to die,” Ria finally said. “Bjarni, I have no love for Stormcloaks, but that was terrible. You should reconsider your allegiances.”

“I had the choice of fighting or showing my belly and getting crucified for it,” Bjarni said soberly. “Companions aren’t supposed to get involved in politics, whelp. Leave that to the Jarls.”

She nearly told him then and there she was the Imperial Heir, come to Skyrim to understand Nord honour so she could keep the province in the Empire. “I wasn’t commenting on the politics of it. I was referring to the fact your parents didn’t even bother to ransom you.”

“Stormcloaks aren’t ransomed and I made this choice because I needed to keep my people alive,” Bjarni told her tersely. “If you want to see dishonour, take a look at Mede and the Elder Council. Even those who don’t give a shit about Talos know they’ve been bleeding Skyrim dry for years.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Some of us pay attention, you know.”

She turned to remove the toes that Arcadia would buy for a few hundred septims, feeling his eyes on her. War was a lot harder than the stories painted because, sometimes, the enemy had a good reason to hate you. If only the Elder Council looked beyond Cyrodiil. When she was Empress, she’d have to do it all herself.


	6. Good Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“Good thing I wore brown pants today,” Onmund said dryly as Calla slid off Durnehviir’s back. “I wasn’t expecting a giant undead dragon to land in the courtyard.”

“His name is Durnehviir and you better get used to him,” Calla told the apprentice with a smile. “I’m juggling a lot at the moment and flying’s quicker than riding, even on Arvak.”

“Drem Yol Lok,” Durnehviir said pleasantly. “The Dovahkiin is my Thuri – overlord.”

“That sound was Ancano needing brown pants,” Onmund said ruefully.

“I hope so,” Calla sighed. “I really do.”

Urag gave her a set of textbooks in return for the reclaimed treatises, one for each of the major Schools practiced at the College, and after reading them Calla handed them over to Onmund. There was no point in holding on to a textbook when she had no need of it, not when the apprentices could use it. “Share those with Brelyna and J’zargo,” she ordered. “Knowledge shouldn’t be hoarded, not in a time and place like this.”

“Yes, Master Calla,” Onmund promised.

Ancano, tall and lean and sallow as all the Altmer were, his Thalmor arrogance overlaid with faux bonhomie, met her at the Arcaneum door. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you,” he said with a smile. “You’ve caused quite the stir at the Embassy, you know.”

“Good. I hope Elenwen shits herself to sleep every night,” Calla said with an edged smile. “I remember what she did at Cloud Ruler Temple.”

Ancano’s smile turned rueful. “Some of us are… excessive… in our zeal,” he conceded. “Others of us are prepared to show some patience.”

“So why are you sniffing around the Eye of Magnus?” Calla asked bluntly. “I know the Thalmor’s end goal. If you think that orb can unmake the world, the Aedra might disabuse you of that idea. And you’ll be dealing with me in my full Dragonborn, Septim-blooded, Daedra-descended glory.”

“So why don’t you kill me now?” Ancano retorted with equal candour.

“Because I know Elenwen’s made threats to the families of College faculty,” Calla said softly. “I won’t be responsible for the deaths of innocents if I can help it.”

“Your compassion does you credit, Calla, truly,” Ancano said with apparent sincerity. “What if I told you that the Thalmor believe every soul is an immortal trapped in mortal flesh, even those of man and Argonian and Khajiit? We’re doing this for everyone, to free them from Lorkhan’s lie.”

“And every time the elf-gods have tried, the Aedra have resisted them,” Calla countered softly. “Bold of you to assume the gods don’t know what they’re about.”

“One day, we’ll need to discuss ‘sunk cost fallacy’,” Ancano said dryly. “But I won’t keep you, Dragonborn. Auri-El has, at least, granted me a worthy opponent in these last days.”

Despite her words, lightning sparked between Calla’s fingers as the Altmer walked away. One bolt…

But no. She’d given her word and if she broke it, innocents would die. The magic spluttered out.

One day, Ancano would give her the excuse to act. One day.

…

“Please do not be alarmed. I mean you no harm,” Quaranir said hastily as the Dragonborn, her hands sparking with electricity, spun around with a cold assessing gleam in her sea-ice eyes. A history of blood and violence and sorrow spilled out before him, all the hallmarks of one driven to the Daedra by the griefs of the world, and the time-freeze spell shuddered around her. Dragons were somewhat immune to the idiosyncrasies of temporal manipulation, even those encased in mortal flesh, the legendary Dragonborn of mannish theology. This one would become one of the Daedra on leaving the mortal coil, even a Psijic apprentice could tell that. But from his observation, she’d be more like Meridia than Molag Bal. A small comfort when faced with infinity compacted into a shortish brunette with the hordes of Oblivion at her fingertips.

“It was Nerien, last time,” she noted. The magicka and the threat left her form, though she stood ready for anything. “If you’re talking about the threat Ancano poses, I know already.”

“I've given us a chance to speak privately, but I'm afraid I can't do this for long. We must be brief. The situation here at your College is of dire importance, and attempts to contact you as we have previously failed. I believe it is due to the very source of our concern. This object...” Quaranir sighed, his breath frosting in the chilled air. No wonder Nords were a cold emotionless race, hailing from these icy shores. “The Eye of Magnus as your people have taken to calling it. The energy coming from it has prevented us from reaching you with the visions you have already seen. The longer it remains here, the more dangerous the situation becomes. And so I have come here personally to tell you it must be dealt with.”

“I’m guessing this is my problem because I’m the Dragonborn?” Calla asked dryly. “That’s how it usually seems to go.”

“You must understand, the Psijic Order does not typically... intervene directly in events. My presence here will be seen as an affront to some within the Order, and as soon as we have finished, I will be leaving your College,” he admitted. “As Dragonborn, one with Aedric and Daedric connections, you have more scope to act than we do. My Order will not act directly. You must take it upon yourself to do so.”

Her expression was thoughtful. A Daedra who didn’t act immediately from passion. Quaranir regretted his order’s absence from the world. If they’d gotten Calla young… “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” she finally said. “Or at least ally of temporary convenience.”

“Precisely. The Thalmor see our Order as a threat because we have power, and we will not allow them to control us. They see you in much the same vein, except you are of the bloodline of the hated Talos,” Quaranir agreed. “As you may have learned, this object... The Eye... is immensely powerful. This world is not ready for it. If it remains here, it will be misused. Indeed, many in the Order believe it has already... Rather, something will happen soon, something that cannot be avoided.”

“So. Threat containment. Understood.” Calla blew out an explosive breath. “So, what now?”

“I fear I have already overstepped the bounds of my Order, but I will offer this: seek out the Augur of Dunlain in your College. His perception may be more coherent than ours,” Quaranir told her candidly. “Between the Eye and your own nature, it’s hard for us to predict the future beyond Ancano getting control of the Eye.”

“I succeed or I fail,” she said fatalistically. “If I fail, at least Alduin won’t eat the world.”

“Indeed. Even killing Ancano won’t alter it, as he’s shared what he knows with Elenwen and her ilk,” Quaranir agreed with a sigh. “The best you can do is postpone it a little.”

“Ancano and the Eye’s alarming enough. Elenwen near the Eye is enough to make the baby Talos cry,” Calla observed. “Thanks for the assistance, Quaranir. I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all we can ask for,” he said with a sigh. “Good luck, Dragonborn.”

“I need more than luck. I need a fucking miracle.”


	7. Time Waits For No One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Playing around with the College questline because most of my characters (and interpretations of NPCs) aren’t idiots.

“I need more than luck. I need a fucking miracle.”

Savos Aren staggered as the Psijic (and his temporal freeze) disappeared, grabbing his desk to steady himself. Calla seemed as unmoved as the rocks against which the hungry sea crashed but there was concern on her hard proud features. For the Dragonborn to appear worried was… troubling. From the emergence of the Psijic Order, Savos Aren could only assume that time ran faster than he hoped for.

“We have a situation and even killing Ancano won’t solve it,” Calla said grimly, tersely delivering the news that Quaranir had shared with her as only a Legion veteran could. Unsurprising that the Augur was probably the only one who knew what was going on. But the Augur – and Ancano – didn’t know everything. There were secrets only the Arch-Mage held, secrets of the College and the Ysmir Collective. Secrets that Savos knew had to be entrusted to the sorceress before him, the sorceress he’d hoped would have a little more time before she took up his mantle.

Time ran faster than he wanted. But time waited on no man nor mer. Even the Dragonborn was subject to time’s tyranny.

“There are two things I know of which might be of use to you,” Savos told her as he collected himself. “One, the Synodic research expedition at Mzulft. They were looking for some kind of sensory apparatus...”

“Oculory,” Calla immediately said. “They’d found clues to it from an Ayleid ruin in County Bruma.”

At his surprised glance, the woman smiled thinly. “I was just setting out with Staubin and Erj and that lot for Nchuand-Zel in the Reach. They wanted to make sure the Synod wasn’t planning to sabotage a Whispers expedition, even one off the books like ours was. When we found out Decimus Paratus was running the show, we knew there’d be no problems on that end. The man couldn’t run an orgy at a Dibellan temple.”

Savos allowed himself a laugh. “Well, they came here and tried to throw their weight around. Mirabelle sent them packing after learning that they wanted to use the Oculory to find magical objects of great power ‘for the Empire’.”

“Paratus’ brother’s on the Synodic Council and spends as much of his time giving political blowjobs to the Elder Council as he does sticking his nose into Whispers business,” Calla agreed, rolling her eyes. “Not that the Whispers are better, but we’re usually a little more dignified about it.”

“Do you still consider yourself a Whispers mage?” Savos asked carefully. It could be complicated if she did; Onmund might have to become the Arch-Mage decades before he was ready.

“I owe them an explanation of what happened to Staubin and Erj,” Calla answered, pursing her lips. “But truth be told, I do prefer the political neutrality of the College. With the favours I’ll be racking up with Tullius and Rikke, I don’t think the Elder Council will object if I stay in Skyrim.”

Savos allowed himself an inward sigh of relief. “Good. I need to make sure there’s a clear line of succession in case things go wrong. Mirabelle’s aware of it and agrees.”

“Of course I do,” said the Master Wizard from the doorway. “The other candidates are… not unworthy, but Tolfdir would rather focus on excavating Saarthal, Faralda might be needlessly inflammatory to the local Nords and I’d prefer to remain in my current position.”

“You want me as Arch-Mage,” Calla observed shrewdly.

“Yes,” Savos admitted. “I’d hoped for more time, for us both, but we may not have that time. You are the most powerful Nord mage since… well, perhaps Shalidor. You’re the Dragonborn. Just by existing, you’ve raised the prestige of the College considerably.”

“I won’t be able to apply my full attention to the College until Alduin is defeated,” she warned.

“I know.” Savos sighed. “But you’re the best choice. Onmund won’t be ready for decades.”

“We’ll see. What was this second thing you wanted me to know?”

He told her and even she looked surprised.

…

“Calla Heart-Taker, former Evoker of the College of Whispers, Master Conjurer of the College of Winterhold, Arch-Mage Apparent, the Last Septim Dragonborn, Bane of Vampires and Thane of Whiterun!”

“Try writing that on an introduction card,” quipped one of the lesser courtiers in Jarl Elisif’s court to Thane Erikur Many-Ships, both of them standing to the side in the audience chamber. While lacking the sophistication of the Imperial City or even Hammerfell, all of the local nobility were turned out in their finest furs and jewels, gathered for the Imperial Moot. Whiterun’s sudden shift in allegiance had emboldened Elisif enough to call one, even if rumours stated Balgruuf would be offered the High King’s crown instead. Beroc wasn’t expecting the Nords to be that clever.

“’Heart-Taker’?” he murmured to one of his aides, a wise-eyed woman named Halima. Lhotunic, born of a Forebear father and Crown mother, she was an excellent voice of moderation in the embassy. “I know Nords are fond of dramatic honour-names, but…”

“The last Dremora Lord to disobey her had his heart ripped out – or so the stories go,” Halima answered in as soft a tone. “Our agents in the Reach have reported it’s a regular threat she makes to those she summons. For some reason, even the greatest of the Daedra don’t push their luck with Calla.”

Calla was decidedly ordinary for a woman considered more than part-Daedra and probably descended from one of the most ambitious, personally vicious deities in Aetherius. Short for a Nord, which made her roughly the same height as a Redguard man, with the black hair and blue-green eyes of the Kreathling royal lineage and an aquiline profile clearly Colovian in appearance. Her olive-bronze skin and the softening of her Nord-square jaw and high cheekbones were from the Redguard blood. She wouldn’t be out of place in Bruma, Falkreath or even Elinhir if it wasn’t for the unusual colour of her eyes and the Daedric script tattoos she had on her arms and torso.

“We certainly won’t,” Beroc agreed wryly. “Rustem’s daughter might just be a little more terrifying than he is.”

Calla gave them a glance and a brief wry smile before approaching the gathered Jarls. That expression warmed her features considerably and showed that perhaps the woman was more ordinary than everyone thought in more than just appearance.

“I apologise for my tardiness,” she said in a low warm contralto. “I had to stop by Korvanjund to pick up something before the Stormcloaks did.”

The crown (or helmet) she produced was monumentally hideous, a thing of aged-ivory fangs and grey-brown… bone? If anything, it made Beroc think of Rustem’s naginata. It was enchanted with a double effect, shimmering under the warm light of a hundred beeswax candles.

“The Jagged Crown,” whispered one of the Nords.

“The Jagged Crown,” Calla confirmed. “Buried with King Borgas, thought lost in the Wild Hunt during his Alessian campaigns. The most ancient sign of Nord kingship.”

“’Maw unleashing razor snow/Of dragons from the blue brought down/Births the walking winter's woe/The High King in his Jagged Crown’,” quoted Balgruuf.

“Yes,” she said softly. “ _Your_ Jagged Crown. There’s only one Jarl with the diplomatic and financial talents necessary to rebuild Skyrim after the civil war. Elisif hasn’t even killed an ice wraith yet and while Ainethach’s a fine man, we’d have another civil war if a Reachman became High King.”

Elisif’s cheeks reddened but interestingly enough, she said nothing. This might have been planned out before the Moot was even called. Amazing, the Nords were showing signs of actual intelligence.

“The Elder Council may take this choice poorly,” noted Falk Firebeard, Elisif’s Steward. “The Jarl Elisif is their choice.”

“Forgive the blunt speech, but Elisif isn’t ready, a lot like Argis and Kaie weren’t ready to become Jarls in the Reach,” Calla told him candidly. “I will never seek a throne. I’d rather not have to fill paperwork every time I go to the privy, thanks. But I know what I am and what my bloodlines mean. If that wins Skyrim a leader who will stand up for them while remaining loyal to the Empire as a whole, then I will use it.”

Elisif sighed gustily. “She’s right, Falk. I think Torygg would approve. Skyrim is more important than my ego.”

With Elisif’s agreement, any residual resistance dissipated, and Balgruuf took the Jagged Crown from Calla’s hands and crowned himself. Beroc had to concede there was a certain barbaric splendour to the ugly thing on a Nord’s head.

“We’ll need to pack up for Whiterun,” murmured Halima. “The Nord capital is where the High King resides.”

“Well,” Beroc observed lightly, “At least it will be warmer there. Haafingar’s chill is getting a bit much for my bones.”

“Admitting weakness, old man?” Halima asked softly.

“Time pauses for no one,” Beroc sighed. “Not man nor mer nor dragon.”


	8. Buying Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

Calla’s expression was thunderous when she returned to Whiterun, an elaborate staff slung across her back and a Dragon Priest’s mask in her pack, and she reeked of bog mud. Serana waited until the Dragonborn had washed and changed before approaching her in the kitchen. A stew bubbled on the hearth; Serana’s skill at alchemy had translated into skill at cookery and she was trying to make the Potage le Manifique from _Uncommon Taste._ From Calla’s appreciative sniff, she might be succeeding.

“The Blades have forced contact by stealing the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller,” Calla said tersely before Serana could ask. “I’m torn between summoning a scamp to steal the damned thing or putting the fear of Talos into Delphine. She’s the Blade who committed adultery with my father, therefore having a hand in the creation of the Stormsword we all know and love today.”

“Is Delphine useful?” Serana asked as she watched Calla slice bread and cheese. The Dragonborn wasn’t too good to help with chores, she’d noticed.

“She’s a competent commander and fighter,” Calla said reluctantly. “But I’ve got Lydia for the muscle and I know enough about small-squad command to not need a tactician.”

“Then she isn’t useful. Get the scamp to do the deed and leave her in the dark.”

“Thanks. You have a way of putting things into perspective.” Calla served up the cheese and bread on three plates. “Things are about to go tits up at the College. Ancano is going to use the Eye to try and unravel the world and from what the Psijics have told me, the best we can do is containment.”

“Why would he want to end the world?” Serana asked in disbelief.

“Altmer believe that Lorkhan – Shor – tricked the Aedra into mortality and ruin,” Calla explained. “The Psijics believe that each soul can make themselves one of the Aedra or Daedra through behaviours in life. The Thalmor want to rip everyone out of existence so they can be timeless immortals once more. Some genuinely believe they’re doing it for our own good.”

“That’s insane,” Serana said flatly. “Shor gave us the chance to become stronger for the end of days.”

“One of my Whispers teachers used to say all things are truth to someone,” Calla said with a shrug. “The way I see it, if Akatosh wanted the world to end, I wouldn’t be Dragonborn and Alduin would be snacking on us in Sovngarde. _My_ concern is containing the damage. If half of Skyrim gets wiped out…”

Serana checked on the stew. “So what are you going to do?”

Calla smiled. “Give the Thalmor something else to think about.”

…

“Given your allegiances, Dragonborn, I’m a little surprised you helped us,” Avulstein confessed as Calla Heart-Taker helped Thorald to his feet, his crushed leg nearly as good as new. He wouldn’t be running into battle, she explained, but he should be able to limp around without a cane. The Grey-Manes would have to take what blessings they could get in a time like this.

“Three provinces have a better chance of crushing the Dominion than one or two,” she replied, looking towards the northeast. “Akaviria isn’t her grandfather. I don’t want to be Empress and I certainly don’t want to endorse my mother and her idiot husband. Knowing this, are you now surprised?”

Avulstein snorted. “Put like _that_ …”

Her smile was wry. “Besides, killing Thalmor’s a favourite hobby of mine. Wait until they meet Durnehviir.”

“That’s Dragonish,” Thorald noted as Avulstein came over to help him stand. He was weak from the imprisonment, torture and healing. “’Curse-Never-Dying’.”

“He brought it on himself by making a deal with the Ideal Masters of the Soul Cairn,” Calla said. “But he serves me well because even a few hours in Keizaal is better than rotting in the Soul Cairn with no relief in sight.”

“Succinctly, the Aurelii weren’t mad when they said they were Septims,” Avulstein explained to his younger brother. “Calla’s the last of them, she’s the Last Dragonborn, and she’s already kicked Harkon the Cruel’s arse and is halfway to defeating Alduin.”

“No, Serana and Valerica kicked Harkon’s arse. I was unconscious for most of the battle,” Calla admitted wryly. “As for the rest… well, I’m stuck with the job, so I might as well make the best of it.”

“So the Stormcloaks have lost then?” Thorald asked soberly.

“More or less. I gave Balgruuf the Jagged Crown. Elisif’s a lovely girl but she’s not ready for the job. Bjarni was ransomed but is working it off rebuilding Whiterun’s roads. I’m hoping Egil, who’s already seen me in combat, decides to quit while he’s ahead.” Calla sighed, suddenly looking very mortal. “I couldn’t save Sigdrifa or Ulfric if I wanted to.”

“Calla’s the Stormsword’s get from her first marriage, the one Sigdrifa doesn’t like to talk about,” Avulstein explained. “She wound up becoming a Daedra cultist or something-“

“I don’t worship the Daedra. I’m descended from the Madgoddess aspect of Sheogorath, have earned myself a couple artefacts, and flipped off at least three Daedric Princes,” Calla corrected calmly. “Molag Bal, Mehrunes Dagon and Vaermina, if you’re wondering.”

She glanced back at the burning rubble of Northwatch Keep. “If you agree to no longer take up arms against the Empire, I can let you go free. I’m trying to preserve as much as I can for the second Great War. But it’s up to you.”

Thorald scowled. “The Empire denied Talos and showed its belly to the Dominion.”

“Because Mede was wounded and shitting himself after my grandfather rebelled at Pale Pass,” Calla answered calmly. “Besides, someone’s already performed the Black Sacrament on the son of a bitch. The first steps in bringing him to Skyrim to die have already begun. Akaviria, bless her, is making an active effort to learn about Nord honour to try and heal the rift her grandfather created.”

“Wait a minute…” Avulstein said slowly as they headed towards the fishing boat at the jetty overlooking an ominous castle. “She’s the whelp Ria, isn’t she?”

Calla inclined her head. “She is. I should mention she’s been spending a lot of time with Bjarni. I don’t like the deception myself, but given what we know of Sigdrifa, I can’t fault her for omitting parts of the truth.”

Avulstein helped his brother into the fishing boat as Ragnar Broken-Tusk began to untie it. “I… thank you, Dragonborn. You didn’t have to help us.”

“I’d always intended to turn this place into rubble. The Thalmor are planning something big and while this won’t stop them, it’ll give me a few weeks’ breathing space to lay some plans of my own,” she admitted. “But… I saw what the Thalmor did to the Blades at Cloud Ruler Temple. I had to do something.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Avulstein said firmly. “The Grey-Manes are in your debt. We won’t raise a weapon to the Empire so long as you are allied to them.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Contrary to popular belief, I take no pleasure in killing. I hate wasted lives.”

She spoke three Words and the cursed dragon she mentioned appeared. Mounting it, she took off as Ragnar raised his sails to leave Haafingar’s shores behind. They’d go to Dawnstar, at the very least.

_Dawnstar, then Whiterun_ , Avulstein decided. If these were the end of days, a Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.


	9. Children's Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

_“Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”_

Calla fancied she still heard the echo of the Greybeards’ acknowledgment of her status in the vaults of heaven as Durnehviir carried her to Sky Haven Temple in the Reach. Now everyone in Skyrim knew that the Dragonborn had returned to contend with Alduin. Probably even the World-Eater himself. Yet the dragons roosting on various mountains didn’t engage her unless she ventured too close. Perhaps they were waiting out the fight.

For the sake of courtesy, she landed Durnehviir in the valley just before Karthspire Redoubt and entered on foot, her wrists crossed and palms closed to show she had no hostile intentions. Kaleen, the resident Matriarch, was a friend and ally of Catriona’s. It paid to be polite to any Hagraven.

She was met at the entrance by a Briarheart. “Was that a dragon?” the stocky undead warrior demanded.

“Yes. His name is Durnehviir. I’m Calla mac Catriona and I’m here to enter the Akaviri Temple. I mean no harm.” She kept her hands in peace-sign.

“I better take you to Kaleen. We’ve been having dragon problems in the Reach and even the High Matriarch at Hag’s End is at the end of her wits.”

Calla followed him to Kaleen’s altar, where she was working on trying to necromantically raise a giant. “Dagon’s balls, it should work!” the Hagraven complained to one of her Hags. “The principles shouldn’t matter whether it be big or small!”

“Have you tried tapping into the residual energies of the camp?” Calla suggested politely. “The bigger it is, the more power it needs, and most mages can’t raise that kind of magicka from themselves. I saw a dragon skeleton reanimated at Labyrinthian, but that wasn’t just Shalidor’s old haunt, it was Bromjunaar – the old capital of Skyrim when dragons ruled, so lots of sacrifices went on there.”

“Riding in on a dragon and surviving Labyrinthian,” Kaleen drawled as she turned around. “I know Lost Valley is prone to theatrics, but don’t you think you’re carrying it a bit far?”

“I’m the Dragonborn. Lowlanders get disappointed if Calla Heart-Taker doesn’t ride in on her undead dragon with an escort of Dremora Lords,” Calla answered dryly.

Kaleen smirked. “You’re Catriona’s granddaughter. Being a drama queen runs in the family.”

“I suppose I had to inherit a few things from Lost Valley.” Calla tucked her hands into her sleeves. “I need to access Sky Haven Temple. The answer to defeating the dragons lies in there, according to the old Akaviri dragonlore.”

“Oh? I’ve been trying to raise this damned thing because of the bloody dragons.” Kaleen gestured at the giant in disgust. “If you can destroy them…”

“I suck their souls out like a pip from a cherry,” Calla assured her. “Once I’m done with Sky Haven Temple, I might take a scenic tour of the Reach and kill some dragons. I’ll need all the power I can get when Alduin comes a-calling.”

“It’s the end of days? Good gods.” Kaleen shuddered. “Follow Bron. He’ll take you through.”

Two hours later, Calla left the ancient temple swearing her head off because all it told her was that a Shout – conveniently unmentioned by the mural – defeated Alduin. The Greybeards could have at least told her what the bloody Shout was and saved her the trip!

“That sounds foreboding,” Bron noted to Kaleen at the mouth of the cave.

“I have to go to High Hrothgar after just coming from there because it’s a bloody unknown Shout,” Calla groused. “Where’s the nearest dragon? I need to vent my spleen on something that can fight back.”

Five dragons and a few Word Walls haunted the Reach and by the end of the third day of leaving Sky Haven Temple, Calla had defeated the former and learned the latter. Dragons didn’t surrender to the Dragonborn… that or they feared Alduin’s retribution. Either way, she’d exhausted the possibilities of the Reach when it came to dragonlore, and so it was time to return to the lowlands after making a courtesy call to Jarl Ainethach.

Markarth had changed in the months since she’d been here. The Reachfolk walked taller, there were less Nord mercenaries on the street, and much of the tension had eased. Hagravens and Briarhearts walked openly and aside from the skittish glances of Legionaries, no one took notice.

Ainethach was going over the account books with Madanach and Nepos. “Those damned dragons are costing us silver we can ill afford if we’re to put that medical service in place,” the Jarl was saying.

“The five dragons who were in the Reach are dead,” Calla said as she dropped five skulls on the table. “You missed the Imperial Moot. Balgruuf of Whiterun’s the new High King.”

“I sent Argis and Kaie to represent the Reach,” Ainethach told her with a broad smile. “There are worse lowlanders than Balgruuf to take the High King’s throne, if we must bow to one.”

“Killing dragons now?” Madanach asked amusedly. “What’s next, Daedric Princes?”

“Give me a few weeks to stop the Thalmor from trying to end the world,” Calla answered dryly. “I’ll schedule it after my fated battle with Alduin.”

“Tell Alduin to make an appointment,” Nepos suggested with a grin. “That tends to keep the riffraff away, I’ve found. They don’t like to wait.”

“So you’re the Dragonborn,” Ainethach told her. “I’m a little hurt you chose to become a Thane of Whiterun as opposed to the Reach, but I suppose Balgruuf’s city is more central than mine.”

“It wasn’t _my_ idea. Balgruuf handed me an axe and told me I was a Thane,” Calla answered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That medical service of yours will thrive. You did a good job on Lydia. You know she’s courting Serana, right?”

“The vampire? I think it will do her some good.” Ainethach steepled his fingers. “So you’re the Dragonborn? That would make you like Talos, I suppose.”

“Only in that we share a bloodline,” Calla said softly. “I’m not interested in rule. I’ve made a couple kings, but I don’t intend to lead anything other than the College of Winterhold.”

“Excuse me for not breaking out in carols of joy and thanksgiving. I have a hangover from last night,” Madanach said dryly. “Are you expecting thanks for not being an all-conquering arsehole?”

“Not particularly. I stopped expecting thanks years ago.” Calla smiled wryly. “Besides, I have more power at my fingertips than any Emperor. Why would I want to do paperwork just so I can go to the privy of a morning? As the Dragonborn Arch-Mage, I have freedom _and_ power.”

“There will be those who fear you,” Madanach said, losing his amusement. “Even if you were to give up the Conjuration and take vows as a priest of the Aedra.”

Calla sighed. “I know. But I have friends now. That’s something Talos never had, for all his power and divinity.”

“So the world is saved from another tyrant by the power of freedom and friendship,” Nepos observed sardonically. “It almost sounds like a children’s tale.”

“We all start by hearing children’s tales,” Calla said softly. “There are worse things to be.”


	10. Not the End of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and war crimes.

“Who told you about Dragonrend?” Arngeir demanded harshly. “It is a foul Shout! Even if I knew it, I wouldn’t teach you.”

_Well, the name sounds promising,_ Calla mused as she maintained her composure. “So you would spit on your father’s sacrifice by refusing to assist me? Akatosh answered his pleas and then made me the Dragonborn. If the gods didn’t want the world saved, I wouldn’t be here.”

Arngeir made a choking sound but some of the rage-redness left his face. “It was forged from hate and fear of the dragons, Calla. Every Word drips with them. When you learn a Word, you accept its meaning into your soul. Do you want to bear such… such…?”

“I’ve been angry for a long time,” Calla said softly. “If you can’t teach it to me, then tell me where the Words can be found.”

His shoulders slumped in defeat. “There’s only one person who can do that. Paarthurnax.”

“Then I’ll go to him.” Calla sighed. “The Blades tried to force contact. You might want to watch the pilgrims. Delphine’s a fanatic and I remember hearing stories about Paarthurnax’s perfidy from Esbern.”

Julius Martin’s expression hardened. “I appreciate the warning.”

So after being taught Clear Skies, the Greybeards’ final lesson to her, Calla climbed to the very peak of the Throat of the World where Paarthurnax roosted. They exchanged greetings and she gave him the three goats that had died from the icy winds up here. From here, Skyrim was laid out like a map-table in a campaign room.

“You have come for Dragonrend,” the dragon sighed.

“I have. Arngeir tells me it’s a Shout full of hatred and grief. Two things I know well.”

“The Words are difficult for us, the dov, to comprehend,” Paarthurnax said softly. “They force mortal concepts upon the infinity of time.”

“I can see why it’s called ‘Dragonrend’,” Calla noted. “So, how can I learn it?”

“Why do you wish to learn it? Alduin has been banished before and the means to do so are at your College,” Paarthurnax asked thoughtfully. “It is not the end of days unless you decide it is.”

“The Elder Scrolls,” Calla breathed.

“Geh. The Kelle, the Elder Scrolls. But why do you wish to learn Dragonrend?”

She knew he wasn’t asking for the sake of curiosity. Dragonrend was a powerful weapon and she could apply it to any dragon, even Paarthurnax. He probably wanted to know she wasn’t going to kill all the dragons.

“Because I want this to end,” she said softly. “If I banish Alduin using the Elder Scrolls, some poor bastard in a couple thousand years will have to do it all over again. I am the last – of my line, of my kind. Let it be over.”

“The end of days will come so that the kalpa – the new world – may begin,” Paarthurnax said quietly.

“And if I’m around then, I won’t remember to care,” Calla countered. “Let the new world take care of itself in due time. It is this one that needs saving.”

Paarthurnax nodded. “A fair answer, Kah-Lah. Read the Scroll at the Time-Wound and all may be revealed… but Alduin and his kind will know. All of Skyrim will know. So be prepared.”

“I will be,” she promised.

…

It was funny how one could almost adapt to any situation, Bjarni mused as he paused in his labour to see his sister riding Durnehviir from the Throat of the World, heading northeast into what appeared to be Eastmarch. They were working on the Pale Road today, halfway to the border towers, and behind them stretched a fresh length of cobblestone laid over packed gravel and earth, drainage ditches on either side to prevent flooding. Every ten paces was planted an apple sapling and in about ten years, this would be a pleasantly shaded walk for anyone heading north.

“I never thought I’d see you doing honest labour,” laughed a Whiterun-accented tenor behind him. “What’s next, settling down and getting married?”

“I’ve more chance than you of getting a wife,” Bjarni said, turning to face Avulstein. “You’re so ugly even the barmaids make you pay twice for your mead.”

“ _You_ have to pay thrice because your dear old ma’s Sigdrifa,” retorted Avulstein with a grin.

They clasped hands. “Is it safe for you to be here?” Bjarni asked. “After Thorald…”

The other Stormcloaks stopped working as Avulstein smiled. “He’s safe… and there’s twenty less Thalmor in the world. Calla tore Northwatch Keep down with her Voice and released us to Balgruuf on the vow we didn’t raise weapons to the Empire.”

“I had to make a similar promise, except I need to work off my ransom,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “If I hadn’t surrendered…”

“You did the right thing,” Avulstein said reluctantly. “I’ve met Akaviria. If we can drum some honour into her, she’ll make a good Empress.”

Somehow Bjarni wasn’t surprised to find out Ria the whelp was really Akaviria the Imperial Heir. He should be angrier about it. But Ria _had_ spent a lot of time around the Stormcloaks, learning about their righteous grievances… and giving some perspective as to some of the reasons why Mede signed the White-Gold Concordat. It didn’t make it better though. It just gave Bjarni a greater understanding of the Great War.

“I have some good news,” Avulstein continued in a softer voice. “Someone’s hired the Dark Brotherhood to kill Mede. I dunno how Calla knows about it but…”

“She probably goes drinking with the Daedric Princes,” Bjarni observed wryly. “Maybe Sithis gave her a heads up over some mead.”

“Maybe. Given what I’ve seen that woman do, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Avulstein rubbed the back of his neck. “It hurts, you know, that we can’t help the cause. Ulfric and Sigdrifa should… I dunno…”

Bjarni glanced towards Eastmarch. “My parents won’t surrender. It’s not in their vocabulary. All we can do is preserve what we can. The world isn’t ending yet. We have, at least, a future.”

“And all we have to do is let our god be buried,” Avulstein said bitterly.

“Better a god than a world.”


	11. Cancelling the Apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“You ruined it!” Decimus Paratus yelled in outrage. “All I’m seeing is the College!”

_That’d be the Eye,_ Calla thought grimly. _Ancano must have managed to gain control of it._

“Given you idiots didn’t even bother to take the cold of Skyrim into account when you arrived here with the focusing crystal, it’s more likely _you_ fucked up,” she said aloud. “What was the idea of accessing the Oculory again?”

“We were to locate and obtain magical artefacts that would serve the Empire better in the Synod’s hands,” Paratus told her flatly. “The College of Winterhold refuses to acknowledge our authority and the College of Whispers can’t be trusted with such power. Only in the Synod can the power of magic be properly contained.”

Calla smiled grimly. “You’re speaking to a Whispers-trained mage who will be the next Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, Paratus. Calla Heart-Taker, at your service.”

She’d expected some kind of reaction but for Paratus to call magic to his hand, shrieking some kind of obscenity, had been low on the list given his notorious cowardice. It didn’t serve him well, because he’d been a desk-bound scholar all of his life while she was a Legion-trained veteran battlemage, but it was still somewhat surprising. She walked past his smoking carcass to study the starlit map one more time. This didn’t look good.

“Thuri,” Durnehviir said after she summoned him, “There is something wrong to the west.”

“The Eye of Magnus,” she explained grimly. “Fly like the wind or the world will end.”

They landed at Whistling Mine, about an hour’s walk out of Winterhold proper, and from here she could see the energy engulfing the College. Korir’s guards were chivvying the civilians into the iron mine while Brelyna, Onmund and J’zargo held off the strange magical apparitions swirling around the area. “Calla!” yelled Brelyna. “Ancano’s taken control of the Eye!”

“I know. I saw it happen at the Oculory.” Calla’s hands flashed and Chain Lightning destroyed three anomalies. “How many casualties?”

“Savos and Mirabelle stayed behind to buy everyone time to escape,” Onmund reported hoarsely. “Before we left, they said you were the new Arch-Mage and Tolfdir the Master Wizard.”

“Where’s everyone else?” she asked.

“In the mine. Korir looked ready to kill them but…” Onmund trailed off as his firebolt destroyed the last of the apparitions. “I was able to talk him down as Thane.”

“Good.” Calla pushed her hair back. “I have what we need to deal with the Eye. I’ll consult with Korir, then take Faralda, Tolfdir, Colette, Urag and J’zargo into the College. I didn’t need the apocalypse happening today.”

Korir was ashen-faced but resolute as he organised defenders for the mine. “What in Talos’ name is going on out there?” he demanded. “You ask me to trust the College when… when…”

“Ancano probably heard the Greybeards announce I was Dragonborn, shit himself and activated the Eye of Magnus to protect himself,” Calla told him with a sigh. “Either that or he heard what I did at Northwatch Keep and decided to try and kill me before I killed him. Savos and Mirabelle died to buy you all time to retreat, Jarl Korir. Blame Ancano, not them.”

“What did you do at Northwatch Keep?” Thaena demanded.

“I killed about a dozen Thalmor agents and brought the keep down with my Voice,” Calla told her. “It seemed appropriate at the time.”

“Oh.” Korir deflated and she realised much of his bluster was to conceal his fear from those who relied on him. “Can you finish this. Dragonborn?”

“I can. If I don’t, none of us will have to worry because we’ll all be dead, including me.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Brelyna and Onmund will hold the magical defences here. Faralda, Colette, Tolfdir, Urag, J’zargo, with me. Faralda and J’zargo, you’re the heavy hitters. Tolfdir, your only job will be defence. Colette, you’re to keep us alive with Restoration. Urag, you’ll wield the Staff of Magnus to break through Ancano’s Wards and shut down the Eye. I’ll use my Shouts. Any questions?”

“Yeah. Who’s buying the post-battle drinks?” Onmund asked with a nervous laugh.

“I will,” Korir said simply. “Don’t fail us.”

“I haven’t failed yet, Jarl Korir,” Calla said with more confidence than she felt.

…

“TIID KLO UL!”

Ancano stiffened… no, his movements became so slow as to be imperceptible. Calla, moving with the ponderous grace of a mammoth, closed in inexorably with a pale violet bound blade in her hands. It seemed the temporal slowing affected her, though not to the level that the Thalmor agent suffered. The oldest Psijic records painted a tale of the Voice evoking primal effects beyond the scope of one mage, perhaps even equal to an entire circle of monks. Seeing the temporal manipulation Calla displayed, Quaranir could well believe it.

For something that had been building for a few months, the crisis was resolved swiftly. That Shout spelt Ancano’s doom as Calla’s bound blade decapitated him and Urag’s staff closed the Eye. Time shuddered once and resumed its normal pace, the potentiality of apocalypse shuddering aside like a diverted avalanche. It was always wearying to manipulate fate, even in small ways, for a Psijic Master. Like levering a mountain with a teaspoon. Calla made it seem as effortless as breathing.

“We knew you would succeed. Your victory here justifies our belief in you. You have proven yourself more than worthy to guide the College of Winterhold,” Quaranir said, revealing himself and the other three monks.

“That thing isn’t stable. It’s still leaking Aedric energy,” Calla observed, giving the Eye a baleful glance. “First the Night of Tears and now this. It might be from the gods, but it’s wreaked as much havoc as any Daedric artefact.”

“The Eye has grown unstable. It cannot remain here, or else it may destroy this College and this world. It must be secured,” Quaranir agreed, managing to conceal his relief. He was half-afraid the Dragonborn would want to keep it. “Ancano's actions prove that the world is not ready for such a thing.”

Calla nodded. “Given the actions of the Synod and the desperation of the Stormcloaks, it might be a good idea to return it to Aetherius. Let’s make it the gods’ problem.”

That hadn’t been on the agenda but… Quaranir studied the Dragonborn, coldly examining each of the potential futures from this one decision, and decided to work _with_ her ability to manipulate probability instead of against it. He felt the assent of his brethren through the psychic super-soul all Psijics shared.

_You know this one will become a Daedra, right?_ Nerien observed silently.

_Yes. What do you take me for, blind as a Moth Priest?_ Quaranir retorted acidly. _There’s not a lot we can do. At least this one’s more inclined to compassion than most of her ilk. The best we can do is guide her to replace one of the more unpleasant ones._

 _I don’t think we’ll get much of a say,_ Gelebros noted. _Hermaeus-Mora’s trying to manipulate her already._

 _There’s a Prince we’d be well rid of,_ Tandil said sardonically.

Around them, the Eye’s magicka built to rival the heart of the sun in radiance. The energy radiated outwards to solidify the weakened earthbones of Winterhold and the entire northern coast of Skyrim, sent there by the Dragonborn’s unconquerable will. Quaranir had never been so sharply reminded of the difference between mortal and immortal, even in all the long years of his life as a Psijic.

He opened his eyes and was again struck by how _ordinary_ Calla appeared. A strikingly attractive (for a human) woman but… no otherworldly energy seeping from her pores, no sign of the god-soul that lurked under that olive-bronze skin. Maybe what she was couldn’t be perceived by even a Psijic.

“Well, that’s done. One more apocalypse and I can take a holiday,” Calla said wearily. “Alduin will be a cake-walk after this.”

She pushed back that long black hair. “I don’t know if this is relevant to the Psijics, but there’s a Chantry of Auri-El up in Haafingar that’s guarded by the last snow elf, Knight-Paladin Gelebor. From what he’s told me of the Falmer’s beliefs, he and the Psijics might have a lot in common.”

Nerien gasped. “The Sunset Chantry? That was thought lost!”

“Its Arch-Curate became a vampire and wrote a charming little prophecy that I had to help stop,” Calla answered with a weary sigh. “If you Altmer want to leave the mortal coil, fine, go ahead. Just don’t drag the rest of us along for the ride.”

“Believe me, Dragonborn, Aetherius probably isn’t on your list of post-life destinations,” Tandil observed dryly. “It might just boil down to which Daedric Prince wins the dice toss for your soul.”

“If that means I can avoid sharing an afterlife with drunken idiots like the Stormcloaks or pontificating arseholes like yourself, I can live with that,” Calla answered sweetly.

Quaranir sighed. “You now have the opportunity to maintain your College, and carry on with your lives. You have our gratitude, Arch-Mage.”

As the mists of the teleportation spell began to rise, Calla inclined her head, and he returned the courtesy. Just because the woman was probably going to be a Daedra, maybe even a Daedric Prince, it didn’t mean the Psijics had to be rude to her. Even they worked, on occasion, with the Princes as was needed.

It was a pity, though, the Psijics hadn’t gotten to her first. But at least she wasn’t an enemy.


	12. Alduin's Bane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

“Do you really think that this will be the final battle against Alduin?” Serana asked as they exited High Hrothgar. Beside her, Lydia maintained an admirable calm for a woman about to engage with the greatest bogeyman of Nord mythology. Calla, of course, looked calm about it all. She rarely tried to show surprise, concern or any other emotion during a battle.

“No. That will be in Sovngarde,” the Dragonborn answered. “But today we learn the Shout that drove him away… and give the World-Eater some of the grief he’s given to others.”

“Another day, another Elder Scroll,” Serana said lightly. “Well, let’s get this show on the road.”

Meeting Paarthurnax, the great grey dragon who’d taught humanity the Voice, was a bit disappointing as he looked so _old._ The view from the Throat of the World was amazing though and Serana savoured it as Calla set up Shock Runes on every conceivable landing place, keyed to cause no harm to her allies but plenty of harm to enemies. Then she summoned Dremora Lords, her usual combination of mage and warrior, and stepped up to the time-wound with Scroll in hand. “Ready yourself,” she ordered. “Alduin will feel the power of the Scroll and come calling.”

She read the Scroll and seconds later, Alduin – big, black and terrifying – appeared. Now battle was joined, Serana felt nothing but a cool calculation as she positioned the Dead Thralls she’d raised from bandits they’d encountered on the trip here. Calla Shouted three Words that enveloped Alduin in purple light, driving him to the ground, and then called on Durnehviir. She wore Tsun’s Axe around her neck and had taken a blessing from the shrine in Whiterun that everyone said belonged to Talos but bore the symbol of Tsun.

“Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor. My belly is full of the souls of your fellow mortals, Dovahkiin. Die now and await your fate in Sovngarde,” Alduin taunted.

Calla retorted with another application of Dragonrend as Durnehviir stooped from above in a flash of purple-black.

For a battle that was supposed to be climactic, it wasn’t that different to previous fights against weaker dragons, except Alduin couldn’t fly away as readily as the others could. Eventually he rolled off the edge of the mountain, flapping away like a seagull drunk on fermented sea-fruit, and Calla swore both profanely and obscenely. Serana wasn’t even sure the Daedra and the Aedra would get up to those kinds of sex acts individually, let alone together.

“You have defeated Alduin in open battle,” Paarthurnax reassured her. “Even the Three Tongues could not say that, Kah-Lah.”

“He’s flown back to Sovngarde to replenish his strength,” Calla said tightly. “He’ll have a portal somewhere, but… I need to end the civil war. Or the dead Nords on both sides will fill his belly.”

“How many Holds still have loyalty to the Stormcloaks?” Serana asked. She’d been too busy building up credit with Farengar and Balgruuf by killing bandits in Whiterun to pay too much attention to the greater politics.

“Winterhold, the Rift, the Pale and Eastmarch,” Lydia answered. “Doesn’t Korir owe you for saving his Hold from Ancano?”

Calla inhaled shudderingly. “I’ll try and talk some sense into him. He’s got the potential to be a very good Jarl. Kraldar might serve the Empire’s purposes better but Korir does love his Hold.”

“If we can win the Pale and Winterhold, Laila might come over once she realises the Dragonborn is on our side,” Lydia agreed. “Like Korir, she wants to be a good Jarl, but is too blinded by debt and loyalty to see a way clear of Ulfric.”

“It’s either end the war or arrange a truce,” Calla said grimly. “The former has more chance than the latter, sadly.”

“Then do what you must, Dragonborn. There are people from Whiterun in Sovngarde. If Alduin devours them, you failed in your duty as Thane to Skyrim’s High King.”

…

“By the Nine, Calla,” Korir said, his soul shaken to the core by the Dragonborn’s revelations. “If what you say is true…”

“It is,” she said grimly. “Alduin taunted me with the prospect if I should die in battle as a Nord. I’d hoped to keep my involvement in the civil war to a minimum, but I doubt Ulfric and the Stormsword would want to participate in peace talks. The fewer Nords who die, the less I have to worry about the final battle in Sovngarde. Alduin can be beaten and he’s demonstrated cowardice. I need to end this as soon as possible.”

Korir ran a hand over his face. Onmund had been arguing for the Empire too, though his only Thane admitted it was because the Cyrods treated mages with more respect than most Nords. He owed Ulfric a debt of gratitude but…

“Why did you pick Balgruuf as High King?” he asked. “I thought Elisif was the Imperial pick.”

“She’s not an adult by Nord standards and she isn’t ready to lead the province,” was Calla’s answer. “Skyrim needed a Jarl with diplomatic and financial skills. Balgruuf has his faults, but he isn’t the Elder Council’s puppet. Give Elisif ten or twenty years and she’ll be ready. But not yet. Just like why Ainethach is the Jarl of the Reach but will be succeeded by my cousin Kaie and her husband Argis.”

“You’re cousin to the Jarls of the Reach as well as the Kreathling Jarls?” he asked in surprise.

“No. Kaie is kin to Madanach, who was my maternal grandmother Catriona’s cousin, and Argis comes from the other royal clan of the Reachfolk,” Calla explained. “If we count all my connections… well, my father’s the consort of the High King of Hammerfell’s cousin, my paternal grandmother was a Redguard Forebear, my paternal great-grandmother was a cousin of the Carvains who ruled County Bruma, and I have Orcish cousins through my great-great-great-grandfather in the Fourth Orsinium. From Julius Martin to my father Rustem’s first marriage, the Aurelii were trying to build alliances to retake the Ruby Throne as hidden Septims.”

The Dragonborn pushed her hair back. “Titus Mede’s going to be dead in months. Akaviria, his heir, has been undercover in Skyrim to learn about Nord honour and ways because she acknowledges Skyrim is the backbone of the Empire. I actually have some high hopes for her and Bjarni, given the amount of time they’re spending together, and the Grey-Manes owe me a debt of honour. I chose Balgruuf because he’s canny enough to maintain loyalty to the Empire without being the Elder Council’s bitch.”

“You don’t want to be the King, but the kingmaker,” Korir said slowly.

“Yes,” Calla admitted candidly. “My path lies… elsewhere. Not in mortal realms once Alduin is done for. There’s something brewing on Solstheim and the Dominion is hoping for round two of the Great War. I need the political bullshit sorted out so I can focus on bigger things.”

Korir nodded. This was the kind of practical politics he understood. Since the Great Collapse, the Jarls of Winterhold had sold their votes in the Moot to whoever offered their Hold the greatest benefit. Until now, he’d thought Ulfric’s price sufficient – food and supplies in return for using Winterhold as a training ground for his troops. But now… he wondered if he’d let them purchase his vote for cheap.

“So how much is Balgruuf willing to pay for my support?” he asked bluntly. “Ulfric pays in food and supplies. I need more from the High King if my Hold is to prosper.”

Honour was a luxury for Jarls who lived in prosperous, powerful Holds. Korir only had his vote. He would have to make it count.


	13. We Are Alike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“By the gods, someone tried to assassinate the Dragonborn!”

Bjarni pushed his way through the crowd gathered around the front gate to be confronted by the sight of his half-sister sprawled on the ground, Serana carefully pulling out a dagger from her stomach as Restoration magic closed the wound. An auburn-haired corpse, wearing plain steel armour, smoked not a pace from where he stood, electricity still sparking from the metal.

“Fuck,” he heard Ralof mutter. “Fuck!”

Lydia, Ralof’s cousin, rolled over the corpse. “I know him from somewhere.”

“Whoever he is, the son of a bitch came closer to dooming the world than even the Thalmor,” remarked Onmund Broken-Tusk grimly. “But I know what you mean, Lydia. I’ve seen him around. So that makes him an Old Holder, because this is my first time south of the Pale.”

Serana helped the wan Calla to her feet. “You have a bad habit of almost dying at the peak of a conflict,” the ex-vampire said ruefully. “You should consider dropping that habit.”

“I wasn’t expecting to get stabbed walking into Whiterun,” Calla said with a wince. “I thought Dark Brothers had more tact and discretion than this.”

Bjarni and Ralof exchanged glances. They damned well knew who the would-be assassin was. They damned well knew how close Calder came to damning the world to Alduin’s hunger. They damned well knew who probably gave the order. What they didn’t know was why she’d be so damned stupid.

Onmund carried an axe etched with Winterhold’s crown in his hands. When did he become a Thane? But that he walked in with the Dragonborn, Serana and Lydia, bearing that axe, indicated Korir’s likely allegiance. Reports from Winterhold were still garbled but they all spoke of the Dragonborn (and the College) ending a Thalmor plot and saving dozens of lives. What was the debt of food and supplies Korir owed Ulfric in comparison to the debt for his entire Hold?

Bjarni was caught between a rock and a hard place. If he spoke, he damned his own family. But if he remained silent, the world might yet end. What was he to do?

“I’m going to Jorrvaskr,” he told Ralof. “I need to speak to Kodlak.”

Ralof inhaled shakily. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them. What’s my honour compared to yours?”

“That’s your call. But I still need to speak to the Harbinger.”

Kodlak, as always, was seated in his office. Much to Bjarni’s surprise and chagrin, Ria was already there, accompanied by a lithe Redguard in red-and-brown armour. “I thought you’d retired,” the Harbinger was saying to the Redguard.

“After the deaths of Vittoria Vici and Gaius Maro, I came to make sure Akaviria was safe,” he responded in an oiled-silk tenor. “Take it up with Isran if you have a problem.”

“My problem is that Ria didn’t tell us who she was,” Kodlak said tersely. “She lied to us-“

“I did not!” Ria protested. “I just simply didn’t mention my grandfather.”

“So you lied by omission…” Kodlak swallowed his words as he spied Bjarni in the doorway. “Don’t you have a road to build, boy? We’re busy here.”

“I came to ask you about a matter of honour. Someone tried to assassinate Calla and damned near doomed the world,” Bjarni told him. “I… know who the assassin was.”

“Some minion of Sigdrifa’s, no doubt,” observed the Redguard. “I’m guessing you’re Sigdrifa’s eldest brat?”

“He’s Bjarni,” Ria said, a touch of frost in her tones. “And he is a man of honour.”

“That’s small praise coming from a woman who lied to us by omission,” Kodlak noted.

“I don’t think a werewolf should be throwing stones when he lives in a glass Jorrvaskr,” the Redguard retorted mildly.

“Are you trying to… to…?” Kodlak choked out.

“You have had the dance and now you fear to pay the piper,” the Redguard continued. “Calla, at least, pays her dues to the Daedric Princes.”

“I’m pretty sure she goes drinking with them regularly,” Bjarni said with a forced laugh. “I’m guessing you’re Irkand?”

“I am.” Irkand sighed. “My niece will be well?”

“Serana healed the wound.” Bjarni sighed himself. “The assassin was my mother’s huscarl Calder. Ralof said he’d take the dishonour of betraying my parents on himself but…”

“For a woman who aspires to emulate Talos, Sigdrifa shows an astonishing amount of blatant stupidity,” Irkand said sardonically. “Akaviria, you’re done here. You need to go to Haafingar.”

“Where my cousin and brother were assassinated?” Ria asked in disbelief. “No, Irkand. We’re going to Falkreath to destroy the Dark Brotherhood in fire and ruin. I’m probably next on the list.”

“You’re not,” Bjarni said slowly. “They’re drawing your grandfather to Skyrim so they can kill him and rid the Empire of the one who’s holding it back. That’s why a lot of moderate Stormcloaks are surrendering – our quarrel’s with Mede, not you.”

“I am a Mede,” Ria said softly.

“And your grandpa’s broken almost as many oaths as my mother. The Nords died for him at the Battle of the Red Ring and he betrayed us by allowing the Thalmor to kill our best and brightest.”

The revelation that Kodlak was a werewolf had been shunted aside. Bjarni met Ria’s eyes squarely, ignoring the Harbinger and the Redguard. It came down to them, each the heir to one side of the civil war.

“You know your parents’ lives are forfeit for their treason, right?” Ria asked softly.

“Just so you know, so too is Mede’s,” Bjarni said as quietly. “Where do you stand on _that_ , Akaviria?”

Her eyes closed. “I intend to destroy the Dark Brotherhood. Either way, my grandfather’s in his eighties, and I will be wearing the purple soon. Where do you stand on _that_ , Bjarni Ulfricsson?”

“As I ever have – with the people of Skyrim. What is my personal honour in the face of that?”

“And mine to the Empire,” Ria whispered. “We are more alike than you might think.”

“But as alike as the Dragonborn knows. I detect her hand in this.”

“Then let us ride together and put the Brotherhood to the torch,” Ria decreed. “And after that, we shall see.”

“So we shall.”


	14. An Ice-Cold Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, suicide and corpse desecration.

“Thuri, I will resurrect in the Soul Cairn, but you are not so fortunate. Is it wise to approach the Pale so openly?”

Calla scratched Durnehviir’s right horn, earning a sigh of bliss from the dragon. “I want to put the fear of the gods into them, Durnehviir. The more who surrender, the less I have to kill and send to fill Alduin’s belly.”

“Ah. Krosis. I should have realised there was wisdom in your actions.”

“If I wanted a yes-man, I’d Conjure a Daedra. I’m always open to constructive criticism, Durnehviir.”

Below them, the screams of ‘dragon’ began to fill the air. Calla watched as the civilians ran for the mines – some good common sense there, since the cottages of the Pale were flammable – and a half-dozen guards advanced with hunting bows in hand under the command of a brown-haired Niben-woman who had to be Brina Merilis. So Skald wasn’t doing his job? That would make replacing him easier.

“I am Calla Heart-Taker,” she announced, using magic to make her Voice rumble like thunder. “Surrender Skald and his commanders to me or I’ll just set fire to his hall anyway. He is to be arrested for treason and sent to Whiterun for trial by High King Balgruuf, but summary execution is also an option.”

“You’re a little late, Dragonborn,” Brina Merilis called out, her voice rich with amusement. “Skald, his huscarl Jod and Frorkmar Banner-Torn ran for Eastmarch last night when word of Korir giving his allegiance to Balgruuf got out.”

“Oh. Well.” Calla guided Durnehviir to land. “I suppose that makes our lives easier, Jarl Brina. It means we’ll get the entire rat’s nest in one fell swoop.”

“I must say, I’m relieved Balgruuf’s the High King,” Brina said later as they shared some ale and cakes in the White Hall. “Elisif’s a lovely girl but she’s a girl. The Elder Council would have her dancing to their tune for a long time yet. Balgruuf’s older, wiser and shrewder.”

“That’s why I crowned him High King,” Calla agreed. “There are some advantages to being the last Septim, Dragonborn and Aurelii. Everyone would be against me if I claimed the Ruby Throne for myself, but they don’t quibble when I announce my support for Balgruuf as High King and Akaviria as Empress.”

“A lot of Stormcloaks surrendered when they found out the Dragonborn supports the Empire.” Brina sipped some ale. “Quite a few more joined their brethren after what happened at Winterhold. I never thought I’d live to see Korir working with mages.”

“I’m the new Arch-Mage,” Calla told her. “Korir’s stubborn, but he isn’t stupid.”

“True.” Brina broke a cake in two. “There’s still some Stormcloaks in the hills near Frostflow Lighthouse. Dealing with them will make my life easier… and feed your pet dragon. Two birds, one stone.”

“I can tell you’re a Legion veteran,” Calla observed dryly. “Efficiency in everything you do.”

The Stormcloaks were dealt with the next day and Calla landed Durnehviir in Winterhold’s courtyard. She was running out of time but it behoved her to wear the Arch-Mage robes on her next trip. Shock and awe would save more lives in the long run than not being taken seriously.

“Is Alduin dinner yet?” Tolfdir asked as she entered the Hall of the Elements.

“No. I’m taking some time out to end the civil war because my mother sent an assassin – her own huscarl no less – to kill me,” Calla answered. “The more Nords who die, the stronger Alduin will be at the final battle. I’d rather scare the Stormcloaks into submission.”

“Ulfric’s fanatics form the ranks of the Eastmarch militia,” Tolfdir warned softly. “They won’t surrender.”

“Then I’ll make sure they die an ignoble death. Alduin feasts on the souls of Nord heroes in Sovngarde.”

Tolfdir was Nord enough to shudder in horror. “You’re a ruthless woman at times, Calla.”

“Sometimes I have no choice. My mother started this game. But I will finish it.”

…

“FAAS RU!”

The Dragonborn’s Voice rolled out across the city, breaking the nerve of even the greatest hearthman in Ulfric’s ranks. They fled the sound of that Voice, diving behind walls and seeking refuge in the houses, but the echoes of those Words followed them even there. The reek of urine and fear filled the streets of Windhelm.

Egil’s heart pounded as Calla, riding the undead dragon Durnehviir, landed in the Palace of the Kings’ courtyard. She wore the fringed blue robes of the Arch-Mage with a blue-tinted Dragon Priest mask, a strange staff crackling with magicka in one hand and the purple-black glow of a Conjuration spell in the other. Behind him, the guards sworn to protect Windhelm fled into the Palace. He stood alone against her. If against her he did stand.

“Where’s Mother?” Calla asked in a low deadly voice.

“In the Palace,” Egil told her hoarsely. “I thought you didn’t want to be a kinslayer?”

“She sent her huscarl Calder to assassinate me,” Calla told him through gritted teeth. “She came closer than the Thalmor ever did to ending the world.”

“Fuck.” Egil took a deep shuddering breath. “Are you declaring her nithing?”

“I’m here to accept the Stormcloaks’ surrender,” Calla answered icily. “Every Nord who dies bravely fills Alduin’s belly in Sovngarde. If I must kill all of you with Soul Tear to make my life easier, I will. But I’d rather not. So make your choices wisely.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Egil mouthed. The monster his mother had created just landed on the doorstep, promising death and damnation to all who opposed her.

He held up his hands to show he was unarmed. “I will carry your message inside, Dragonborn. That’s all I can do.”

“You can command your soldiers to stand down,” Calla said softly. “If you wish to surrender to the Thane of High King Balgruuf instead of the Dragonborn, I will accept your parole. I ransomed Bjarni. I will spare who I can.”

“I will carry your message to the Eastmarch militia commander,” he told her. “I only command a squad of cavalry. None of them would pick a fight with you. I choose my soldiers for intelligence over slavish obedience.”

She nodded. “Then I hope the Eastmarch militia commander’s a wise man.”

When Egil told Yrsarald what was going on and what exactly Soul Tear did to an enemy, the commander blanched and promptly pissed himself. The dishonour of surrender or an ignoble death; Calla had put them between the Daedra and the deep blue sea. Yrsarald had listened intently to Egil’s intelligence about the Dragonborn from the Volkihar crisis.

“We’ll never surrender!” Galmar barked.

“Then you’ll be rotting in the Soul Cairn,” Egil told him. “I’ve seen what Soul Tear does to an enemy. I don’t want to see my kin fall prey to it, even after Mother’s stupid, stupid idea!”

“Do what you two must,” Ulfric commanded in a soft voice. “Preserve what can be preserved.”

“Father…” Egil whispered. “What are you doing?”

Ulfric smiled. “Doing what I must. Go and negotiate the surrender with the Dragonborn. If she’s anything like your mother, she’ll be testy if she’s kept waiting.”

He paused by Egil, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you and Bjarni. Talos watch over you both.”

“Ulfric,” Galmar said softly. “You’re certain?”

“I won’t ask my soldiers to face a fate worse than death,” Ulfric told him. “We last few will die bravely. I trust Calla will keep her brothers alive if they surrender.”

“She ransomed Bjarni,” Egil said, blinking back tears. “I think she wants to end this with minimal bloodshed.”

“That speaks well of her. For a Daedra, she has honour.” Ulfric’s smile was sad and melancholy. “I suppose I’ll make some people happy today. Ask the elves to keep the parties to a minimum. I wouldn’t want to please Elenwen too much.”

By the time Egil and Yrsarald found enough officers to bring the Stormcloaks to surrender, Ulfric and Galmar had thrown themselves at Calla with weapons drawn, tricking her into using Fire Breath on them. Nothing but piles of ash remained… and her expression was sick with self-loathing.

“Damn you,” she whispered. “You’ve made me a kinslayer!”

“It isn’t kinslaying, Dragonborn, if your own kin attacks you first,” Yrsarald said heavily. “Ulfric and Galmar had no choice. The Empire would have crucified them and piked their heads on a wall.”

“Where is she?” Calla asked in that terrible whisper.

“Gone,” Yrsarald reported. “She’s gone.”

As the ice-cold wind blew away the ashes of his father and a man who was like a father to him, Egil knelt, the other Stormcloak officers following suit. It was better to surrender to the Dragonborn than the Empire, even if doing so was one and the same. At least Calla had the decency to look horrified.


	15. The Eternal Champion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Coming to the end of this story!

“I give the city of Windhelm to you,” Calla said, her eyes cold as sea-ice. “In the name of Stendarr, Egil Ulfricsson has requested you show mercy and forbearance to those who did no wrong but to serve their Jarl.”

“In the name of Stendarr, I will do so,” Ria promised, her purple cloak flapping in the ice-cold wind. “I have come to understand that the actions of the Stormcloaks were driven, in part, by the failure of the Empire. Together, it’s my hope we can build a new and brighter future for us all.”

There were no cheers. The Nords of Windhelm were sullenly accepting of the status quo. They couldn’t even tell themselves they’d resisted bravely because Calla had reportedly broken their spirits with one Shout on her arrival in the city. Only Ulfric and Galmar had gone down fighting.

When they gathered in what had been Ulfric’s war-room next to the Great Hall, Calla’s stony demeanour cracked when she met Bjarni. “They came at me with drawn weapons,” she told her younger brother. “I used Fire Breath reflexively. I’m sorry, Bjarni.”

Ulfric’s eldest son’s expression flickered with pain before he replied, “They attacked you first. It isn’t kinslaughter. Now where the hell is our mother?”

“She fled on a boat, Scouts-Many-Marshes told me,” Ralof reported. If Ria was going to pardon Bjarni, she had to pardon his second-in-command. She’d pardoned all the Stormcloaks who had the sense to surrender. Skyrim would need many soldiers in the future. “She provoked this and she couldn’t even stay to face the music. Where’s the Shieldmaiden’s honour in _that_?”

“There is none,” Rikke said sternly. Tullius was away in the Rift, subduing the last holdouts in Fort Greenwall, but Ria had promoted one of her earliest mentors into the position of Legate of the Imperial Guard. The arrival of the Imperial signet, delivered by one of her father’s personal agents, indicated that Titus Mede and Commander Maro knew what was coming… and made sure Ria was ready to take the Ruby Throne. “I would have thrown her into the sea for pissing on this, the last of her vows.”

“We’ll take care of it,” promised Argis the Bulwark. “Between the Forsworn and the Morag Tong, the Stormsword will be run to earth and dealt with. Astrid will be too busy with other concerns to protect her old schoolfriend.”

Egil raked back greasy black hair. Between the stubble on his cheeks and the rumpling of his clothing, it was apparent the young cavalry commander had little sleep over the past three days. Watching one’s father and adopted uncle die at the hands of one’s sister had left its mark on the boy. He was only a couple years younger than Ria but she felt old as time itself. Well, Grandfather had always said the Ruby Throne aged an Emperor two months every time he sat down on it.

“Brunwulf Free-Winter will become Jarl of Windhelm,” Ria announced with a sigh that was echoed by those gathered in the war-room. “It was the agreement reached before this happened and… well, you were still under arms against the Empire, Egil. I can pardon you, but you can’t inherit Eastmarch.”

“Brunwulf’s a good man,” Egil agreed. “There are worse people to take the Throne of Ysgramor.”

“That being said, I’ve been told of your courage during the Volkihar crisis by Irkand, Serana and Calla,” Ria continued. “In light of that, I have pardoned you for the crime of high treason and commuted the sentence of mandatory lifetime imprisonment for raising rebellion against the Imperial Legion to involuntary commitment to the Vigilance of Stendarr as an oathsworn paladin at Irkand’s suggestion. You may hold no titles nor command outside of the Vigilance or the Temples. Any children of yours won’t be counted in Windhelm’s succession, but I won’t interdict them. They will have no more or no less rank than any other law-abiding Imperial citizen but they will be able to join the Legion, the Guilds or any other law-abiding faction and gain or lose rank therein.”

“You’ve learned what not to do, if nothing else,” Egil observed quietly. “It is acceptable.”

Ria throttled down a flare of temper. She was showing mercy and forbearance as he asked; he could sound a little more grateful!

But gratitude couldn’t be forced. She’d seen that often enough over the years.

“What of Bjarni?” asked Jorleif, Ulfric’s old Steward.

“Bjarni was pardoned and paroled by the High King for his attack on Whiterun,” Ria told him. “He’s paid off his ransom and has been released. I’ve offered him a place in my Privy Council and an apprenticeship to the Imperial Mason. He’s quite good at building things.”

“I always thought he was better at drinking and carousing,” Jorleif observed wryly.

“Ulfric never gave him or Egil the chance to be anything other than warriors,” Ria said. “Sigdrifa would have killed her own children if they’d tried to be anything else. I have high hopes for Bjarni. I don’t want them wasted.”

“They won’t be,” Calla said quietly. “It’s high time the Nords had a hand in the Empire they built once more. Bjarni will lead the way.”

“No. He follows in _your_ footsteps, Calla.” Ria clasped her hands together. “You had the right, the power and the authority to claim the Ruby Throne for yourself as the Last Septim Dragonborn. Stormcloak and Imperial would have followed you, Madanach would have raised the Reach’s hordes to make of you another Longhouse Empress, and Hammerfell would have been conciliatory to the granddaughter of Setareh al-Dragonstar. You could have, had you wanted, rebuilt the Septim Empire to greater heights and glory than even Talos himself could have managed.”

“A Dragonborn has four choices: dominion, apotheosis, obscurity or annihilation,” Calla remarked cryptically. “I have decided against dominion and obscurity. We shall which of the other options prevails once I am done with Alduin.”

Ria hadn’t been invested as Empress yet. But she didn’t need the blessings of Akatosh to realise that Calla probably wasn’t human anymore, if ever she had been. Perhaps she declined dominion and obscurity because they were too tedious for her. Somehow, she didn’t think annihilation was on the cards for the Last Dragonborn either.

“That may be,” she said carefully. “But I am raising you to the rank of Eternal Champion, as was held by your forebears Marius Aurelius and Aurelia Northstar. Twice you have risen to the occasion to defeat threats to Nirn and after today, I don’t think Alduin’s long for this world. You answer only to me, my Imperial Consort, the Commander of the Imperial Guard and the Chancellor of the Elder Council. Whatever you might be, Calla Heart-Taker, you are neither a traitor nor an abuser of power. Whatever you will become – even if you should walk in the footsteps of your foremother Aurelia Northstar – I know you are loyal to the Empire.”

“To the Empire,” Calla agreed. _Not to the Medes or the Elder Council,_ her tone implied.

Ria would take it. Whatever Calla was, she wasn’t another Talos or Jagar Tharn.

Sometimes you had to take what victories you could.


	16. By Right of Being Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. A few more chapters to go!

“Skuldafn, Thuri,” Durnehviir said decisively. “That is the fane Alduin gathers his last strength at, where the portal to Sovngarde shall be.”

Calla packed the last satchel of potions into the makeshift panniers. “Then that is where we go to end this.”

Eternal _fucking_ Champion. She knew Ria was trying to honour her, trying to show that the Aurelii had been forgiven, but Calla found the Empress’ acknowledgment a sop to her pride. She’d ended the civil war because it needed to be done, not out of any love for the Empire, and she’d still become a kinslayer. Ulfric and Galmar had forced her hand. She understood why but it still galled her.

They’d died bravely and forced her to confront Alduin before she was quite ready. But she didn’t dare linger, knowing her brothers’ father and adopted father faced annihilation in the World-Eater’s belly. Sometimes she wished she was as ruthless and cruel as everyone thought her to be.

No one cheered their going but she fancied the Nords of Eastmarch gave a relieved sigh. To the southwest they flew, searching for an ancient temple where Alduin’s last loyal minions hovered. Below her, she could see the ruins of a smoking fortress with the Bruma Fourth guarding rows of disconsolate Stormcloaks. Ria would have to be harsher on this lot. The price of Ulfric’s pride and Sigdrifa’s sins.

Four dragons awaited them at Skuldafn. “Can you take them, Durnehviir?” she asked the undead dragon.

“I can buy you time, Thuri. If Alduin prevails, he will devour me. If you succeed, I will still be at your call. Either way, freedom from the Soul Cairn awaits.” The dragon gave her a gape-mouthed grin. “The Dragon Priest guards the portal.”

Calla grabbed her satchels, slung them across her back, and launched herself from the dragon after casting a Feather spell in one hand and a Levitation spell in the other.

Compared to Morokei, the Dragon Priest guarding the portal to Sovngarde was small potatoes, and his staff provided the key to entering the heavenly realm. Taking a deep breath, Calla stepped into the vortex, and was soon engulfed by power that shone the radiance of ten thousand heavenly stars.

…

“Well, you didn’t waste time coming to Sovngarde, Dragonborn,” Ulfric observed as the mists cleared under the power of her Thu’um. Calla was no less terrifying in the afterlife as she had been on Nirn, the Daedric power roiling under her skin just as the Aedric power of Sovngarde infused him and Galmar with a soft glow. “If you’re looking for your mother, she’s not here.”

“Thank the Nine,” Galmar said fervently. “Living with Sigdrifa was bad enough in life. I’m grateful I don’t have to spend eternity with her in death.”

“She fled on a boat,” Calla answered, her gaze glacial. “And you two made a kinslayer of me. Damn you, that was one line I hoped never to cross!”

“We attacked you,” Ulfric told her. “You defended yourself. By the most ancient Nord laws, you aren’t a kinslayer. Having the Dragonborn end us made for a better song.”

“Fuck your song,” was her blunt reply. “Brunwulf rules in Windhelm. Egil’s been shipped off to the Vigilants. Bjarni’s probably going to be Akaviria’s Imperial Consort.”

“She’s Sigdrifa’s daughter alright,” Galmar observed wryly. “Got the same sweet temper and dulcet tones.”

Ulfric laughed as they followed the Dragonborn around. The heroic dead couldn’t be soul-trapped, so now Galmar could express his opinions as he pleased, and even Calla wouldn’t feed them to Alduin. Maybe.

She gathered all the dead and brought them to Tsun, standing before the Whalebone Bridge.

“What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honoured dead?” Shor’s Shield-Thane asked mildly, his mighty axe resting in his hands.

“I’m here to kick Alduin’s arse back to whence he came,” Calla answered. “Who in Oblivion are you when you’re at home?”

“I am Tsun, shield-thane to Shor. The Whalebone Bridge he bade me guard and winnow all those souls whose heroic end sent them here, to Shor's lofty hall where welcome, well earned, awaits those I judge fit to join that fellowship of honour,” Tsun replied. “A fateful errand you pursue. No few have chafed to face the Worm since first he set his soul-snare here at Sovngarde's threshold. But Shor restrained our wrathful onslaught - perhaps, deep counselled, your doom he foresaw.”

“More likely he didn’t want to give Alduin an entrée course,” Calla noted. “So what now? I’m here. How do I get that oversized lizard back here to fight me?”

“No shade are you, as usually here passes, but living, you dare the land of the dead. By what right do you request entry?” Tsun continued mildly.

“You have to fight him to gain entrance to the Hall of Valour,” Ulfric told her.

“For fuck’s sake, really?” Calla demanded. “I’m the fucking Dragonborn, the Arch-fucking-Mage and now the Eternal fucking Champion! What more does he want?”

“Well met, mage of Skyrim. The Nords may have forgotten their forefathers' respect for the Clever Craft, but your comrades throng this hall. Here in Shor's house we honour it still,” Tsun said with a grin. “It's been too long since last I faced a doom-driven hero of the dragon blood.”

“You have got to be shitting me!” Calla swore as Tsun’s axe fell. “FEIM!”

Ulfric really shouldn’t have laughed at the sight of the Dragonborn trying to dodge Tsun as a ghostly wraith, protesting the absolute ridiculousness of the situation, but Galmar and the other heroic dead – even Torygg – were laughing alongside him. Calla, for all her power, really wasn’t Sovngarde material.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!” she finally Shouted, blasting Tsun with fire.

The God of Trials emerged from the blaze, brushing some ash from his bare shoulders fastidiously. “That tickled. Not for Shor’s hall are you destined but the endless shores of Oblivion. Still, you fought when pressed. Go forth, child of the outer dark, and consult with Shor’s greatest warriors as how best to defeat the wretched wyrm.”

“Oh, great,” Galmar groaned as Calla strode across the Whalebone Bridge. “She’s going to be a Daedric Prince like her grandma.”

“Oblivion can keep her,” Ulfric said lightly as he strode to confront Tsun. “It’s the Hall of Valour for you and I.”


	17. A Little Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Looks like the story's ending here as an epilogue seems a bit much. I hope you enjoyed it.

“Welcome, Dragonborn! Our hall has stood empty since Alduin first set his soul-snare here. By Shor's command we sheathed our blades and ventured not the vale's dark mist. But three await your word to loose their fury upon the perilous foe. Gormlaith the Fearless, glad-hearted in battle; Hakon the Valiant, heavy-handed warrior; Felldir the Old, far-seeing and grim.”

“Your hall looks plenty full to me,” Calla observed as she glanced across the golden stones. Everything here was golden. Crockery, cutlery, Shor on his throne, the warriors feasting, fighting and fucking… If this was the preferred afterlife of the Nords, it was greatly overrated.

“No new arrivals since the return of Alduin have found their way here,” the giant warrior, who was a bit shorter than Tsun, said quietly. “Alduin’s belly is no doubt full of the heroic dead.”

“The only thing his belly will be full of in a few hours will be my spells,” Calla countered. “So where are the three idiots who left their mess for me to clean up?”

“Over there,” said the giant warrior. “Your tongue should be softer. You will likely come here at life’s end.”

“I most utterly, sincerely, completely hope not,” Calla said fervently.

“Amen,” said Ulfric in passing. “The only person I’d less like to see here is your mother.”

“And yet you married her. Look how it turned out for you.”

“Ulfric Stormcloak! Welcome!” greeted the warrior. “Is the Last Dragonborn usually so churlish?”

“The gods didn’t pick her for the sweetness of her su’um, Ysgramor, but the lightning in her soul,” Ulfric answered respectfully. “She is the last descendant of Talos Stormcrown.”

“Yes, and that worked out wonderfully for me and my family,” Calla said acidly. “If you’ll excuse, I have a World-Eater to kill. Enjoy your afterlife, Ulfric. I hope it’s everything you ever wanted.”

“I have Galmar and I feast with Ysgramor. If I can’t have a Skyrim free of the Empire, this will have to do.” Ulfric smirked. “No doubt we’ll hear you ruling a plane of Oblivion in short order. Feel free to stop by for a drink. You gave me a glorious ending.”

“If I never see you again, Ulfric, it will be too soon.”

Gormlaith was blonde and stupidly eager for battle, Hakon was dark-haired and over this already, and Felldir was grey-haired with blue-green eyes not unlike hers.

“At long last! Alduin's doom is now ours to seal - just speak the word and with high hearts we'll hasten forth to smite the worm wherever he lurks!” Gormlaith announced cheerfully.

“Hold, comrades - let us counsel take before battle is blindly joined. Alduin's mist is more than a snare - its shadowy gloom is his shield and cloak. But with four voices joined, our valour combined, we can blast the mist and bring him to battle,” Felldir advised.

“Felldir speaks wisdom - the World-Eater, coward, fears you, Dragonborn. We must drive away his mist, Shouting together, and then unsheathe our blades in desperate battle with our black-winged foe,” Hakon added.

“Two out of three Skyrim-bred Nords demonstrating intelligence. Isn’t that against your religion?” Calla asked sardonically.

Hakon laughed. “I see why you bear no blade, Dragonborn – your tongue is sharp enough!”

“To battle, my friends! The fields will echo with the clamour of war, our wills undaunted!” Gormlaith announced, running for the door.

“Didn’t she learn any better when Alduin flung her aside like a potato peel at the Battle of High Hrothgar?” Calla asked Felldir as they followed.

“Gormlaith has ever revelled in battle,” he said gravely. “Few Nords tarry when war calls.”

“The universe might have done me a favour by having me born in Cyrodiil,” Calla muttered. “I make war when I must but as we say in the Anvil Third, today is a great day for someone who isn’t me to die!”

Tsun encouraged them on as they reached the edge of the mists. Apparently he couldn’t or wouldn’t join in. Go figure.

“Clear Skies,” Calla said as they fell into combat stances, her hands flashing complex gestures to summon Dremora Lords. “Then Dragonrend to keep his arse on the ground.”

“You rely on minions drawn from Oblivion?” Hakon asked, shocked.

“My great-great-grandmother’s a Daedric Prince. Call it an ancestral talent.”

“LOK VAH KOOR!” they Shouted in unison, only for Alduin to bring back the mists.

“Again!” Gormlaith ordered.

“LOK VAH KOOR!”

“VEN MUL RIIK!”

“We can shatter his power if we Shout together!” Felldir said breathlessly.

“LOK VAH KOOR!”

“VEN MUL RIIK!”

“Does his strength have no end? Is our struggle in vain?” Hakon asked in despair.

“Stand fast! His strength is failing! Once more, and his might will be broken!” Gormlaith yelled.

“His power crumbles - do not pause for breath!” Felldir commanded hoarsely.

“LOK VAH KOOR!”

And the mists peeled away to reveal Alduin in his night-black form, a hole cut from the starry heavens above. “JOOR ZAH FRUL!” Calla roared, striking him in the face and bringing him down to earth.

It was perhaps hypocritical of her to wear a Talos amulet and accept a blessing from a Talos shrine after stamping out the last rebellion done in the god’s name, but Calla had learned long ago that hypocrisy was a necessity of survival when every hand was against you. Oh, she was the Eternal Champion, feared and revered as the last of the Septims and the Dragonborn… but once Alduin was done, someone would try to kill her. Even knowing the fate of the world if she should perish, her own mother had tried to kill her.

Oblivion, at least, had been honest in its dealings with her. If this was heaven, then the Aedra could keep it.

Alduin was little more than a childish nightmare monster lurking under the bed compared to the darkness Calla had looked in the eye and spat in the face. A toy, much like the heroes of Sovngarde, static in its unchanging perfection. Compared to Vaermina or Molag Bal or Mehrunes Dagon, he was a bug beneath her feet. What was his devouring of a few heroic souls compared to the magicka of the Eye? Ancano had come closer to ending the world than he had. Even Harkon had been a more credible threat than the World-Eater.

So little. So fragile. A little patch of dark shredded by the power of Oblivion.

Alduin, the bogeyman of Nord myth, cried in despair as his form cracked apart.

It was done.

“That was a mighty deed! The doom of Alduin encompassed at last, and cleansed is Sovngarde of his evil snare. They will sing of this battle in Shor's hall forever. But your fate lies elsewhere,” Tsun said as the mists faded away. “And I do not think we shall see you again.”

“You can keep your Sovngarde,” Calla told him candidly. “I’ve defied Vaermina and spat in the eye of Molag Bal. What was a little dragon to that?”

“I think you will be a great and terrible power,” Tsun said quietly. “But for what you have done here, you may call on me as a friend. You are a true Nord, a woman of honour and courage.”

“Thank you,” she said softly as the mists began to swirl. “May your gods be with you.”

Apotheosis or annihilation. There would be no obscurity or dominion over mortalkind for her.


End file.
